THE WHEELS OF CHANCE; A BICYCLING IDYLL

By H. G. Wells

1896

I. THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTER IN THE STORY

If you (presuming you are of the sex that does such things)--if you hadgone into the Drapery Emporium--which is really only magnificent forshop--of Messrs. Antrobus & Co. --a perfectly fictitious "Co. , " bythe bye--of Putney, on the 14th of August, 1895, had turned to theright-hand side, where the blocks of white linen and piles of blanketsrise up to the rail from which the pink and blue prints depend, youmight have been served by the central figure of this story that is nowbeginning. He would have come forward, bowing and swaying, he would haveextended two hands with largish knuckles and enormous cuffs over thecounter, and he would have asked you, protruding a pointed chin andwithout the slightest anticipation of pleasure in his manner, what hemight have the pleasure of showing you. Under certain circumstances--as, for instance, hats, baby linen, gloves, silks, lace, or curtains--hewould simply have bowed politely, and with a drooping expression, andmaking a kind of circular sweep, invited you to "step this way, "and so led you beyond his ken; but under other and happierconditions, --huckaback, blankets, dimity, cretonne, linen, calico, arecases in point, --he would have requested you to take a seat, emphasisingthe hospitality by leaning over the counter and gripping a chair back ina spasmodic manner, and so proceeded to obtain, unfold, and exhibithis goods for your consideration. Under which happier circumstances youmight--if of an observing turn of mind and not too much of a housewifeto be inhuman--have given the central figure of this story less cursoryattention. 

Now if you had noticed anything about him, it would have been chiefly tonotice how little he was noticeable. He wore the black morning coat, theblack tie, and the speckled grey nether parts (descending into shadowand mystery below the counter) of his craft. He was of a pallidcomplexion, hair of a kind of dirty fairness, greyish eyes, and askimpy, immature moustache under his peaked indeterminate nose. His features were all small, but none ill-shaped. A rosette of pinsdecorated the lappel of his coat. His remarks, you would observe, wereentirely what people used to call cliche, formulae not organic to theoccasion, but stereotyped ages ago and learnt years since by heart. "This, madam, " he would say, "is selling very well. " "We are doing avery good article at four three a yard. " "We could show you somethingbetter, of course. " "No trouble, madam, I assure you. " Such were thesimple counters of his intercourse. So, I say, he would have presentedhimself to your superficial observation. He would have danced aboutbehind the counter, have neatly refolded the goods he had shown you, have put on one side those you selected, extracted a little book witha carbon leaf and a tinfoil sheet from a fixture, made you out a littlebill in that weak flourishing hand peculiar to drapers, and have bawled"Sayn!" Then a puffy little shop-walker would have come into view, looked at the bill for a second, very hard (showing you a partingdown the middle of his head meanwhile), have scribbled a still moreflourishing J. M. All over the document, have asked you if therewas nothing more, have stood by you--supposing that you were payingcash--until the central figure of this story reappeared with the change. One glance more at him, and the puffy little shop-walker would have beenbowing you out, with fountains of civilities at work all about you. Andso the interview would have terminated. 

But real literature, as distinguished from anecdote, does not concernitself with superficial appearances alone. Literature is revelation. Modern literature is indecorous revelation. It is the duty of theearnest author to tell you what you would not have seen--even at thecost of some blushes. And the thing that you would not have seen aboutthis young man, and the thing of the greatest moment to this story, thething that must be told if the book is to be written, was--let us faceit bravely--the Remarkable Condition of this Young Man's Legs. 

Let us approach the business with dispassionate explicitness. Let usassume something of the scientific spirit, the hard, almost professorialtone of the conscientious realist. Let us treat this young man's legs asa mere diagram, and indicate the points of interest with the unemotionalprecision of a lecturer's pointer. And so to our revelation. On theinternal aspect of the right ankle of this young man you would haveobserved, ladies and gentlemen, a contusion and an abrasion; on theinternal aspect of the left ankle a contusion also; on its externalaspect a large yellowish bruise. On his left shin there were twobruises, one a leaden yellow graduating here and there into purple, and another, obviously of more recent date, of a blotchy red--tumid andthreatening. Proceeding up the left leg in a spiral manner, an unnaturalhardness and redness would have been discovered on the upper aspect ofthe calf, and above the knee and on the inner side, an extraordinaryexpanse of bruised surface, a kind of closely stippled shading ofcontused points. The right leg would be found to be bruised in amarvellous manner all about and under the knee, and particularly on theinterior aspect of the knee. So far we may proceed with our details. Fired by these discoveries, an investigator might perhaps have pursuedhis inquiries further--to bruises on the shoulders, elbows, and even thefinger joints, of the central figure of our story. He had indeed beenbumped and battered at an extraordinary number of points. But enoughof realistic description is as good as a feast, and we have exhibitedenough for our purpose. Even in literature one must know where to drawthe line. 

Now the reader may be inclined to wonder how a respectable young shopmanshould have got his legs, and indeed himself generally, into such adreadful condition. One might fancy that he had been sitting with hisnether extremities in some complicated machinery, a threshing-machine, say, or one of those hay-making furies. But Sherlock Holmes (now happilydead) would have fancied nothing of the kind. He would have recognisedat once that the bruises on the internal aspect of the left leg, considered in the light of the distribution of the other abrasions andcontusions, pointed unmistakably to the violent impact of the MountingBeginner upon the bicycling saddle, and that the ruinous state of theright knee was equally eloquent of the concussions attendant on thatperson's hasty, frequently causeless, and invariably ill-conceiveddescents. One large bruise on the shin is even more characteristic ofthe 'prentice cyclist, for upon every one of them waits the jest of theunexpected treadle. You try at least to walk your machine in an easymanner, and whack!--you are rubbing your shin. So out of innocence weripen. Two bruises on that place mark a certain want of aptitude inlearning, such as one might expect in a person unused to muscularexercise. Blisters on the hands are eloquent of the nervous clutchof the wavering rider. And so forth, until Sherlock is presentlyexplaining, by the help of the minor injuries, that the machine riddenis an old-fashioned affair with a fork instead of the diamond frame, acushioned tire, well worn on the hind wheel, and a gross weight all onof perhaps three-and-forty pounds. 

The revelation is made. Behind the decorous figure of the attentiveshopman that I had the honour of showing you at first, rises a visionof a nightly struggle, of two dark figures and a machine in a darkroad, --the road, to be explicit, from Roehampton to Putney Hill, --andwith this vision is the sound of a heel spurning the gravel, a gaspingand grunting, a shouting of "Steer, man, steer!" a wavering unsteadyflight, a spasmodic turning of the missile edifice of man and machine, and a collapse. Then you descry dimly through the dusk the centralfigure of this story sitting by the roadside and rubbing his leg atsome new place, and his friend, sympathetic (but by no means depressed), repairing the displacement of the handle-bar. 

Thus even in a shop assistant does the warmth of manhood assert itself, and drive him against all the conditions of his calling, against thecounsels of prudence and the restrictions of his means, to seek thewholesome delights of exertion and danger and pain. And our firstexamination of the draper reveals beneath his draperies--the man! Towhich initial fact (among others) we shall come again in the end. 

II

But enough of these revelations. The central figure of our story is nowgoing along behind the counter, a draper indeed, with your purchases inhis arms, to the warehouse, where the various articles you have selectedwill presently be packed by the senior porter and sent to you. Returningthence to his particular place, he lays hands on a folded piece ofgingham, and gripping the corners of the folds in his hands, begins tostraighten them punctiliously. Near him is an apprentice, apprenticed tothe same high calling of draper's assistant, a ruddy, red-haired ladin a very short tailless black coat and a very high collar, who isdeliberately unfolding and refolding some patterns of cretonne. Bytwenty-one he too may hope to be a full-blown assistant, even as Mr. Hoopdriver. Prints depend from the brass rails above them, behind arefixtures full of white packages containing, as inscriptions testify, Lino, Hd Bk, and Mull. You might imagine to see them that the two wereboth intent upon nothing but smoothness of textile and rectitude offold. But to tell the truth, neither is thinking of the mechanicalduties in hand. The assistant is dreaming of the delicious time--onlyfour hours off now--when he will resume the tale of his bruises andabrasions. The apprentice is nearer the long long thoughts of boyhood, and his imagination rides cap-a-pie through the chambers of his brain, seeking some knightly quest in honour of that Fair Lady, the last butone of the girl apprentices to the dress-making upstairs. He inclinesrather to street fighting against revolutionaries--because then shecould see him from the window. 

Jerking them back to the present comes the puffy little shop-walker, with a paper in his hand. The apprentice becomes extremely active. Theshopwalker eyes the goods in hand. "Hoopdriver, " he says, "how's thatline of g-sez-x ginghams?"

Hoopdriver returns from an imaginary triumph over the uncertainties ofdismounting. "They're going fairly well, sir. But the larger checks seemhanging. "

The shop-walker brings up parallel to the counter. "Any particular timewhen you want your holidays?" he asks. 

Hoopdriver pulls at his skimpy moustache. "No--Don't want them too late, sir, of course. "

"How about this day week?"

Hoopdriver becomes rigidly meditative, gripping the corners of thegingham folds in his hands. His face is eloquent of conflictingconsiderations. Can he learn it in a week? That's the question. Otherwise Briggs will get next week, and he will have to wait untilSeptember--when the weather is often uncertain. He is naturally of asanguine disposition. All drapers have to be, or else they could neverhave the faith they show in the beauty, washability, and unfadingexcellence of the goods they sell you. The decision comes at last. "That'll do me very well, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, terminating the pause. 

The die is cast. 

The shop-walker makes a note of it and goes on to Briggs in the"dresses, " the next in the strict scale of precedence of the DraperyEmporium. Mr. Hoopdriver in alternating spasms anon straightens hisgingham and anon becomes meditative, with his tongue in the hollow ofhis decaying wisdom tooth. 

III

At supper that night, holiday talk held undisputed sway. Mr. Pritchardspoke of "Scotland, " Miss Isaacs clamoured of Bettws-y-Coed, Mr. Judsondisplayed a proprietary interest in the Norfolk Broads. "I?" saidHoopdriver when the question came to him. "Why, cycling, of course. "

"You're never going to ride that dreadful machine of yours, day afterday?" said Miss Howe of the Costume Department. 

"I am, " said Hoopdriver as calmly as possible, pulling at theinsufficient moustache. "I'm going for a Cycling Tour. Along the SouthCoast. "

"Well, all I hope, Mr. Hoopdriver, is that you'll get fine weather, "said Miss Howe. "And not come any nasty croppers. "

"And done forget some tinscher of arnica in yer bag, " said the juniorapprentice in the very high collar. (He had witnessed one of the lessonsat the top of Putney Hill. )

"You stow it, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, looking hard and threateninglyat the junior apprentice, and suddenly adding in a tone of bittercontempt, --"Jampot. "

"I'm getting fairly safe upon it now, " he told Miss Howe. 

At other times Hoopdriver might have further resented the satiricalefforts of the apprentice, but his mind was too full of the projectedTour to admit any petty delicacies of dignity. He left the supper tableearly, so that he might put in a good hour at the desperate gymnasticsup the Roehampton Road before it would be time to come back for lockingup. When the gas was turned off for the night he was sitting on the edgeof his bed, rubbing arnica into his knee--a new and very big place--andstudying a Road Map of the South of England. Briggs of the "dresses, "who shared the room with him, was sitting up in bed and trying to smokein the dark. Briggs had never been on a cycle in his life, but he feltHoopdriver's inexperience and offered such advice as occurred to him. 

"Have the machine thoroughly well oiled, " said Briggs, "carry one ortwo lemons with you, don't tear yourself to death the first day, and situpright. Never lose control of the machine, and always sound the bell onevery possible opportunity. You mind those things, and nothing very muchcan't happen to you, Hoopdriver--you take my word. "

He would lapse into silence for a minute, save perhaps for a curse or soat his pipe, and then break out with an entirely different set of tips. 

"Avoid running over dogs, Hoopdriver, whatever you do. It's one ofthe worst things you can do to run over a dog. Never let the machinebuckle--there was a man killed only the other day through his wheelbuckling--don't scorch, don't ride on the foot-path, keep your own sideof the road, and if you see a tramline, go round the corner at once, and hurry off into the next county--and always light up before dark. Youmind just a few little things like that, Hoopdriver, and nothing muchcan't happen to you--you take my word. "

"Right you are!" said Hoopdriver. "Good-night, old man. "

"Good-night, " said Briggs, and there was silence for a space, savefor the succulent respiration of the pipe. Hoopdriver rode off intoDreamland on his machine, and was scarcely there before he was pitchedback into the world of sense again. --Something--what was it?

"Never oil the steering. It's fatal, " a voice that came from rounda fitful glow of light, was saying. "And clean the chain daily withblack-lead. You mind just a few little things like that--"

"Lord LOVE us!" said Hoopdriver, and pulled the bedclothes over hisears. 

IV. THE RIDING FORTH OF MR. HOOPDRIVER

Only those who toil six long days out of the seven, and all the yearround, save for one brief glorious fortnight or ten days in the summertime, know the exquisite sensations of the First Holiday Morning. Allthe dreary, uninteresting routine drops from you suddenly, your chainsfall about your feet. All at once you are Lord of yourself, Lord ofevery hour in the long, vacant day; you may go where you please, callnone Sir or Madame, have a lappel free of pins, doff your black morningcoat, and wear the colour of your heart, and be a Man. You grudge sleep, you grudge eating, and drinking even, their intrusion on those exquisitemoments. There will be no more rising before breakfast in casualold clothing, to go dusting and getting ready in a cheerless, shutter-darkened, wrappered-up shop, no more imperious cries of, "Forward, Hoopdriver, " no more hasty meals, and weary attendance onfitful old women, for ten blessed days. The first morning is by farthe most glorious, for you hold your whole fortune in your hands. Thereafter, every night, comes a pang, a spectre, that will not beexorcised--the premonition of the return. The shadow of going back, ofbeing put in the cage again for another twelve months, lies blacker andblacker across the sunlight. But on the first morning of the ten theholiday has no past, and ten days seems as good as infinity. 

And it was fine, full of a promise of glorious days, a deep blue skywith dazzling piles of white cloud here and there, as though celestialhaymakers had been piling the swathes of last night's clouds into cocksfor a coming cartage. There were thrushes in the Richmond Road, and alark on Putney Heath. The freshness of dew was in the air; dew orthe relics of an overnight shower glittered on the leaves and grass. Hoopdriver had breakfasted early by Mrs. Gunn's complaisance. He wheeledhis machine up Putney Hill, and his heart sang within him. Halfway up, adissipated-looking black cat rushed home across the road and vanishedunder a gate. All the big red-brick houses behind the variegated shrubsand trees had their blinds down still, and he would not have changedplaces with a soul in any one of them for a hundred pounds. 

He had on his new brown cycling suit--a handsome Norfolk jacket thingfor 30/(sp. )--and his legs--those martyr legs--were more than consoledby thick chequered stockings, "thin in the foot, thick in the leg, " forall they had endured. A neat packet of American cloth behind the saddlecontained his change of raiment, and the bell and the handle-bar and thehubs and lamp, albeit a trifle freckled by wear, glittered blindinglyin the rising sunlight. And at the top of the hill, after onlyone unsuccessful attempt, which, somehow, terminated on the green, Hoopdriver mounted, and with a stately and cautious restraint in hispace, and a dignified curvature of path, began his great Cycling Touralong the Southern Coast. 

There is only one phrase to describe his course at this stage, and thatis--voluptuous curves. He did not ride fast, he did not ride straight, an exacting critic might say he did not ride well--but he rodegenerously, opulently, using the whole road and even nibbling at thefootpath. The excitement never flagged. So far he had never passed orbeen passed by anything, but as yet the day was young and the road wasclear. He doubted his steering so much that, for the present, he hadresolved to dismount at the approach of anything else upon wheels. Theshadows of the trees lay very long and blue across the road, the morningsunlight was like amber fire. 

At the cross-roads at the top of West Hill, where the cattle troughstands, he turned towards Kingston and set himself to scale the littlebit of ascent. An early heath-keeper, in his velveteen jacket, marvelledat his efforts. And while he yet struggled, the head of a carter roseover the brow. 

At the sight of him Mr. Hoopdriver, according to his previousdetermination, resolved to dismount. He tightened the brake, and themachine stopped dead. He was trying to think what he did with his rightleg whilst getting off. He gripped the handles and released the brake, standing on the left pedal and waving his right foot in the air. Then--these things take so long in the telling--he found the machine wasfalling over to the right. While he was deciding upon a plan of action, gravitation appears to have been busy. He was still irresolute when hefound the machine on the ground, himself kneeling upon it, and a vaguefeeling in his mind that again Providence had dealt harshly with hisshin. This happened when he was just level with the heathkeeper. The manin the approaching cart stood up to see the ruins better. 

"THAT ain't the way to get off, " said the heathkeeper. 

Mr. Hoopdriver picked up the machine. The handle was twisted askew againHe said something under his breath. He would have to unscrew the beastlything. 

"THAT ain't the way to get off, " repeated the heathkeeper, after asilence. 

"_I_ know that, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, testily, determined to overlookthe new specimen on his shin at any cost. He unbuckled the wallet behindthe saddle, to get out a screw hammer. 

"If you know it ain't the way to get off--whaddyer do it for?" said theheath-keeper, in a tone of friendly controversy. 

Mr. Hoopdriver got out his screw hammer and went to the handle. He wasannoyed. "That's my business, I suppose, " he said, fumbling with thescrew. The unusual exertion had made his hands shake frightfully. 

The heath-keeper became meditative, and twisted his stick in hishands behind his back. "You've broken yer 'andle, ain't yer?" hesaid presently. Just then the screw hammer slipped off the nut. Mr. Hoopdriver used a nasty, low word. 

"They're trying things, them bicycles, " said the heath-keeper, charitably. "Very trying. " Mr. Hoopdriver gave the nut a vicious turnand suddenly stood up--he was holding the front wheel between his knees. "I wish, " said he, with a catch in his voice, "I wish you'd leave offstaring at me. "

Then with the air of one who has delivered an ultimatum, he beganreplacing the screw hammer in the wallet. 

The heath-keeper never moved. Possibly he raised his eyebrows, and certainly he stared harder than he did before. "You're prettyunsociable, " he said slowly, as Mr. Hoopdriver seized the handles andstood ready to mount as soon as the cart had passed. 

The indignation gathered slowly but surely. "Why don't you ride on aprivate road of your own if no one ain't to speak to you?" asked theheath-keeper, perceiving more and more clearly the bearing of thematter. "Can't no one make a passin' remark to you, Touchy? Ain't I goodenough to speak to you? Been struck wooden all of a sudden?"

Mr. Hoopdriver stared into the Immensity of the Future. He was rigidwith emotion. It was like abusing the Lions in Trafalgar Square. But theheathkeeper felt his honour was at stake. 

"Don't you make no remarks to 'IM, " said the keeper as the carter cameup broadside to them. "'E's a bloomin' dook, 'e is. 'E don't conversewith no one under a earl. 'E's off to Windsor, 'e is; that's why 'e'sstickin' his be'ind out so haughty. Pride! Why, 'e's got so much of it, 'e has to carry some of it in that there bundle there, for fear 'e'dbust if 'e didn't ease hisself a bit--'E--"

But Mr. Hoopdriver heard no more. He was hopping vigorously along theroad, in a spasmodic attempt to remount. He missed the treadle once andswore viciously, to the keeper's immense delight. "Nar! Nar!" said theheath-keeper. 

In another moment Mr. Hoopdriver was up, and after one terrific lurchof the machine, the heathkeeper dropped out of earshot. Mr. Hoopdriverwould have liked to look back at his enemy, but he usually twisted roundand upset if he tried that. He had to imagine the indignant heath-keepertelling the carter all about it. He tried to infuse as much disdainaspossible into his retreating aspect. 

He drove on his sinuous way down the dip by the new mere and up thelittle rise to the crest of the hill that drops into Kingston Vale;and so remarkable is the psychology of cycling, that he rode all thestraighter and easier because the emotions the heathkeeper had arousedrelieved his mind of the constant expectation of collapse that hadpreviously unnerved him. To ride a bicycle properly is very like a loveaffair--chiefly it is a matter of faith. Believe you do it, and thething is done; doubt, and, for the life of you, you cannot. 

Now you may perhaps imagine that as he rode on, his feelings towards theheath-keeper were either vindictive or remorseful, --vindictive for theaggravation or remorseful for his own injudicious display of illtemper. As a matter of fact, they were nothing of the sort. A sudden, a wonderful gratitude, possessed him. The Glory of the Holidays hadresumed its sway with a sudden accession of splendour. At the crest ofthe hill he put his feet upon the footrests, and now riding moderatelystraight, went, with a palpitating brake, down that excellent descent. A new delight was in his eyes, quite over and above the pleasure ofrushing through the keen, sweet, morning air. He reached out his thumband twanged his bell out of sheer happiness. 

"'He's a bloomin' Dook--he is!'" said Mr. Hoopdriver to himself, in asoft undertone, as he went soaring down the hill, and again, "'He's abloomin' Dook!"' He opened his mouth in a silent laugh. It was having adecent cut did it. His social superiority had been so evident that evena man like that noticed it. No more Manchester Department for ten days!Out of Manchester, a Man. The draper Hoopdriver, the Hand, had vanishedfrom existence. Instead was a gentleman, a man of pleasure, with afive-pound note, two sovereigns, and some silver at various convenientpoints of his person. At any rate as good as a Dook, if not preciselyin the peerage. Involuntarily at the thought of his funds Hoopdriver'sright hand left the handle and sought his breast pocket, to beimmediately recalled by a violent swoop of the machine towards thecemetery. Whirroo! Just missed that half-brick! Mischievous brutes therewere in the world to put such a thing in the road. Some blooming 'Arryor other! Ought to prosecute a few of these roughs, and the rest wouldknow better. That must be the buckle of the wallet was rattling on themud-guard. How cheerfully the wheels buzzed!

The cemetery was very silent and peaceful, but the Vale was waking, andwindows rattled and squeaked up, and a white dog came out of one of thehouses and yelped at him. He got off, rather breathless, at the foot ofKingston Hill, and pushed up. Halfway up, an early milk chariot rattledby him; two dirty men with bundles came hurrying down. Hoopdriver feltsure they were burglars, carrying home the swag. 

It was up Kingston Hill that he first noticed a peculiar feeling, aslight tightness at his knees; but he noticed, too, at the top thathe rode straighter than he did before. The pleasure of riding straightblotted out these first intimations of fatigue. A man on horsebackappeared; Hoopdriver, in a tumult of soul at his own temerity, passedhim. Then down the hill into Kingston, with the screw hammer, behindin the wallet, rattling against the oil can. He passed, withoutmisadventure, a fruiterer's van and a sluggish cartload of bricks. Andin Kingston Hoopdriver, with the most exquisite sensations, saw theshutters half removed from a draper's shop, and two yawning youths, in dusty old black jackets and with dirty white comforters about theirnecks, clearing up the planks and boxes and wrappers in the window, preparatory to dressing it out. Even so had Hoopdriver been on theprevious day. But now, was he not a bloomin' Dook, palpably in thesight of common men? Then round the corner to the right--bell bangedfuriously--and so along the road to Surbiton. 

Whoop for Freedom and Adventure! Every now and then a house with anexpression of sleepy surprise would open its eye as he passed, andto the right of him for a mile or so the weltering Thames flashed andglittered. Talk of your joie de vivre. Albeit with a certain crampingsensation about the knees and calves slowly forcing itself upon hisattention. 

V. THE SHAMEFUL EPISODE OF THE YOUNG LADY IN GREY

Now you must understand that Mr. Hoopdriver was not one of your fastyoung men. If he had been King Lemuel, he could not have profited moreby his mother's instructions. He regarded the feminine sex as somethingto bow to and smirk at from a safe distance. Years of the intimateremoteness of a counter leave their mark upon a man. It was an adventurefor him to take one of the Young Ladies of the establishment to churchon a Sunday. Few modern young men could have merited less the epithet"Dorg. " But I have thought at times that his machine may have hadsomething of the blade in its metal. Decidedly it was a machine with apast. Mr. Hoopdriver had bought it second-hand from Hare's in Putney, and Hare said it had had several owners. Second-hand was scarcely theword for it, and Elare was mildly puzzled that he should be selling suchan antiquity. He said it was perfectly sound, if a little old-fashioned, but he was absolutely silent about its moral character. It may even havebegun its career with a poet, say, in his glorious youth. It may havebeen the bicycle of a Really Bad Man. No one who has ever ridden a cycleof any kind but will witness that the things are unaccountably prone topick up bad habits--and keep them. 

It is undeniable that it became convulsed with the most violent emotionsdirectly the Young Lady in Grey appeared. It began an absolutelyunprecedented Wabble--unprecedented so far as Hoopdriver's experiencewent. It "showed off"--the most decadent sinuosity. It left a track likeone of Beardsley's feathers. He suddenly realised, too, that his cap wasloose on his head and his breath a mere remnant. 

The Young Lady in Grey was also riding a bicycle. She was dressed in abeautiful bluish-gray, and the sun behind her drew her outline in goldand left the rest in shadow. Hoopdriver was dimly aware that she wasyoung, rather slender, dark, and with a bright colour and bright eyes. Strange doubts possessed him as to the nature of her nether costume. He had heard of such things of course. French, perhaps. Her handlesglittered; a jet of sunlight splashed off her bell blindingly. She wasapproaching the high road along an affluent from the villas of Surbiton. Fee roads converged slantingly. She was travelling at about the samepace as Mr. Hoopdriver. The appearances pointed to a meeting at the forkof the roads. 

Hoopdriver was seized with a horrible conflict of doubts. By contrastwith her he rode disgracefully. Had he not better get off at onceand pretend something was wrong with his treadle? Yet even the end ofgetting off was an uncertainty. That last occasion on Putney Heath! Onthe other hand, what would happen if he kept on? To go very slowseemed the abnegation of his manhood. To crawl after a mere schoolgirl!Besides, she was not riding very fast. On the other hand, to thrusthimself in front of her, consuming the road in his tendril-like advance, seemed an incivility--greed. He would leave her such a very little. His business training made him prone to bow and step aside. If only onecould take one's hands off the handles, one might pass with a silentelevation of the hat, of course. But even that was a little suggestiveof a funeral. 

Meanwhile the roads converged. She was looking at him. She was flushed, a little thin, and had very bright eyes. Her red lips fell apart. Shemay have been riding hard, but it looked uncommonly like a faint smile. And the things were--yes!--RATIONALS! Suddenly an impulse to bolt fromthe situation became clamorous. Mr. Hoopdriver pedalled convulsively, intending to pass her. He jerked against some tin thing on the road, andit flew up between front wheel and mud-guard. He twisted round towardsher. Had the machine a devil?

At that supreme moment it came across him that he would have done wiserto dismount. He gave a frantic 'whoop' and tried to get round, then, ashe seemed falling over, he pulled the handles straight again and to theleft by an instinctive motion, and shot behind her hind wheel, missingher by a hair's breadth. The pavement kerb awaited him. He tried torecover, and found himself jumped up on the pavement and riding squarelyat a neat wooden paling. He struck this with a terrific impact and shotforward off his saddle into a clumsy entanglement. Then he began totumble over sideways, and completed the entire figure in a sittingposition on the gravel, with his feet between the fork and the stay ofthe machine. The concussion on the gravel shook his entire being. Heremained in that position, wishing that he had broken his neck, wishingeven more heartily that he had never been born. The glory of life haddeparted. Bloomin' Dook, indeed! These unwomanly women!

There was a soft whirr, the click of a brake, two footfalls, and theYoung Lady in Grey stood holding her machine. She had turned round andcome back to him. The warm sunlight now was in her face. "Are you hurt?"she said. She had a pretty, clear, girlish voice. She was really veryyoung--quite a girl, in fact. And rode so well! It was a bitter draught. 

Mr. Hoopdriver stood up at once. "Not a bit, " he said, a littleruefully. He became painfully aware that large patches of gravelscarcely improve the appearance of a Norfolk suit. "I'm very sorryindeed--"

"It's my fault, " she said, interrupting and so saving him on the veryverge of calling her 'Miss. ' (He knew 'Miss' was wrong, but it wasdeep-seated habit with him. ) "I tried to pass you on the wrong side. "Her face and eyes seemed all alive. "It's my place to be sorry. "

"But it was my steering--"

"I ought to have seen you were a Novice"--with a touch of superiority. "But you rode so straight coming along there!"

She really was--dashed pretty. Mr. Hoopdriver's feelings passed thenadir. When he spoke again there was the faintest flavour of thearistocratic in his voice. 

"It's my first ride, as a matter of fact. But that's no excuse for myah! blundering--"

"Your finger's bleeding, " she said, abruptly. 

He saw his knuckle was barked. "I didn't feel it, " he said, feelingmanly. 

"You don't at first. Have you any sticking-plaster? If not--" Shebalanced her machine against herself. She had a little side pocket, and she whipped out a small packet of sticking-plaster with a pair ofscissors in a sheath at the side, and cut off a generous portion. Hehad a wild impulse to ask her to stick it on for him. Controlled. "Thankyou, " he said. 

"Machine all right?" she asked, looking past him at the prostratevehicle, her hands on her handle-bar. For the first time Hoopdriver didnot feel proud of his machine. 

He turned and began to pick up the fallen fabric. He looked over hisshoulder, and she was gone, turned his head over the other shoulder downthe road, and she was riding off. "ORF!" said Mr. Hoopdriver. "Well, I'm blowed!--Talk about Slap Up!" (His aristocratic refinement rarelyadorned his speech in his private soliloquies. ) His mind was whirling. One fact was clear. A most delightful and novel human being had flashedacross his horizon and was going out of his life again. The Holidaymadness was in his blood. She looked round!

At that he rushed his machine into the road, and began a hasty ascent. Unsuccessful. Try again. Confound it, will he NEVER be able to get upon the thing again? She will be round the corner in a minute. Once more. Ah! Pedal! Wabble! No! Right this time! He gripped the handles and puthis head down. He would overtake her. 

The situation was primordial. The Man beneath prevailed for a momentover the civilised superstructure, the Draper. He pushed at the pedalswith archaic violence. So Palaeolithic man may have ridden his simplebicycle of chipped flint in pursuit of his exogamous affinity. Shevanished round the corner. His effort was Titanic. What should he saywhen he overtook her? That scarcely disturbed him at first. How fineshe had looked, flushed with the exertion of riding, breathing a littlefast, but elastic and active! Talk about your ladylike, homekeepinggirls with complexions like cold veal! But what should he say to her?That was a bother. And he could not lift his cap without risking arepetition of his previous ignominy. She was a real Young Lady. Nomistake about that! None of your blooming shop girls. (There is nogreater contempt in the world than that of shop men for shop girls, unless it be that of shop girls for shop men. ) Phew! This was work. Acertain numbness came and went at his knees. 

"May I ask to whom I am indebted?" he panted to himself, trying it over. That might do. Lucky he had a card case! A hundred a shilling--whileyou wait. He was getting winded. The road was certainly a bit uphill. He turned the corner and saw a long stretch of road, and a grey dressvanishing. He set his teeth. Had he gained on her at all? "Monkey ona gridiron!" yelped a small boy. Hoopdriver redoubled his efforts. Hisbreath became audible, his steering unsteady, his pedalling positivelyferocious. A drop of perspiration ran into his eye, irritant as acid. The road really was uphill beyond dispute. All his physiology began tocry out at him. A last tremendous effort brought him to the corner andshowed yet another extent of shady roadway, empty save for a baker'svan. His front wheel suddenly shrieked aloud. "Oh Lord!" saidHoopdriver, relaxing. 

Anyhow she was not in sight. He got off unsteadily, and for a momenthis legs felt like wisps of cotton. He balanced his machine against thegrassy edge of the path and sat down panting. His hands were gnarledwith swollen veins and shaking palpably, his breath came viscid. 

"I'm hardly in training yet, " he remarked. His legs had gone leaden. "I don't feel as though I'd had a mouthful of breakfast. " Presently heslapped his side pocket and produced therefrom a brand-new cigarettecase and a packet of Vansittart's Red Herring cigarettes. He filledthe case. Then his eye fell with a sudden approval on the ornamentalchequering of his new stockings. The expression in his eyes faded slowlyto abstract meditation. 

"She WAS a stunning girl, " he said. "I wonder if I shall ever set eyeson her again. And she knew how to ride, too! Wonder what she thought ofme. "

The phrase 'bloomin' Dook' floated into his mind with a certain flavourof comfort. 

He lit a cigarette, and sat smoking and meditating. He did not even lookup when vehicles passed. It was perhaps ten minutes before he rousedhimself. "What rot it is! What's the good of thinking such things, " hesaid. "I'm only a blessed draper's assistant. " (To be exact, he did notsay blessed. The service of a shop may polish a man's exterior ways, butthe 'prentices' dormitory is an indifferent school for either mannersor morals. ) He stood up and began wheeling his machine towards Esher. Itwas going to be a beautiful day, and the hedges and trees and the opencountry were all glorious to his town-tired eyes. But it was a littledifferent from the elation of his start. 

"Look at the gentleman wizzer bicitle, " said a nursemaid on the pathto a personage in a perambulator. That healed him a little. "'Gentlemanwizzer bicitle, '--'bloomin' Dook'--I can't look so very seedy, " he saidto himself. 

"I WONDER--I should just like to know--"

There was something very comforting in the track of HER pneumaticrunning straight and steady along the road before him. It must be hers. No other pneumatic had been along the road that morning. It was justpossible, of course, that he might see her once more--coming back. Should he try and say something smart? He speculated what manner of girlshe might be. Probably she was one of these here New Women. He had apersuasion the cult had been maligned. Anyhow she was a Lady. And richpeople, too! Her machine couldn't have cost much under twenty pounds. His mind came round and dwelt some time on her visible self. Rationaldress didn't look a bit unwomanly. However, he disdained to be one ofyour fortune-hunters. Then his thoughts drove off at a tangent. He wouldcertainly have to get something to eat at the next public house. 

VI. ON THE ROAD TO RIPLEY

In the fulness of time, Mr. Hoopdriver drew near the Marquis of Granbyat Esher, and as he came under the railway arch and saw the inn in frontof him, he mounted his machine again and rode bravely up to the doorway. Burton and biscuit and cheese he had, which, indeed, is Burton in itsproper company; and as he was eating there came a middleaged man in adrab cycling suit, very red and moist and angry in the face, and askedbitterly for a lemon squash. And he sat down upon the seat in the barand mopped his face. But scarcely had he sat down before he got up againand stared out of the doorway. 

"Damn!" said he. Then, "Damned Fool!"

"Eigh?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, looking round suddenly with a piece ofcheese in his cheek. 

The man in drab faced him. "I called myself a Damned Fool, sir. Have youany objections?"

"Oh!--None. None, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "I thought you spoke to me. Ididn't hear what you said. "

"To have a contemplative disposition and an energetic temperament, sir, is hell. Hell, I tell you. A contemplative disposition and a phlegmatictemperament, all very well. But energy and philosophy--!"

Mr. Hoopdriver looked as intelligent as he could, but said nothing. 

"There's no hurry, sir, none whatever. I came out for exercise, gentleexercise, and to notice the scenery and to botanise. And no sooner doI get on the accursed machine, than off I go hammer and tongs; I neverlook to right or left, never notice a flower, never see a view, get hot, juicy, red, --like a grilled chop. Here I am, sir. Come from Guildford insomething under the hour. WHY, sir?"

Mr. Hoopdriver shook his head. 

"Because I'm a damned fool, sir. Because I've reservoirs and reservoirsof muscular energy, and one or other of them is always leaking. It'sa most interesting road, birds and trees, I've no doubt, and waysideflowers, and there's nothing I should enjoy more than watching them. ButI can't. Get me on that machine, and I have to go. Get me on anything, and I have to go. And I don't want to go a bit. WHY should a man rushabout like a rocket, all pace and fizzle? Why? It makes me furious. Ican assure you, sir, I go scorching along the road, and cursing aloud atmyself for doing it. A quiet, dignified, philosophical man, that's whatI am--at bottom; and here I am dancing with rage and swearing like adrunken tinker at a perfect stranger--

"But my day's wasted. I've lost all that country road, and now I'm onthe fringe of London. And I might have loitered all the morning! Ugh!Thank Heaven, sir, you have not the irritable temperament, that youare not goaded to madness by your endogenous sneers, by the eternalwrangling of an uncomfortable soul and body. I tell you, I lead a catand dog life--But what IS the use of talking?--It's all of a piece!"

He tossed his head with unspeakable self-disgust, pitched the lemonsquash into his mouth, paid for it, and without any further remarkstrode to the door. Mr. Hoopdriver was still wondering what to say whenhis interlocutor vanished. There was a noise of a foot spurning thegravel, and when Mr. Hoopdriver reached the doorway, the man in drab wasa score of yards Londonward. He had already gathered pace. He pedalledwith ill-suppressed anger, and his head was going down. In anothermoment he flew swiftly out of sight under the railway arch, and Mr. Hoopdriver saw him no more. 

VII. 

After this whirlwind Mr. Hoopdriver paid his reckoning and--being nowa little rested about the muscles of the knees--resumed his saddle androde on in the direction of Ripley, along an excellent but undulatingroad. He was pleased to find his command over his machine alreadysensibly increased. He set himself little exercises as he went along andperformed them with variable success. There was, for instance, steeringin between a couple of stones, say a foot apart, a deed of littledifficulty as far as the front wheel is concerned. But the back wheel, not being under the sway of the human eye, is apt to take a vicious jumpover the obstacle, which sends a violent concussion all along the spineto the skull, and will even jerk a loosely fastened hat over the eyes, and so lead to much confusion. And again, there was taking the hand orhands off the handlebar, a thing simple in itself, but complex in itsconsequences. This particularly was a feat Mr. Hoopdriver desired todo, for several divergent reasons; but at present it simply led toconvulsive balancings and novel and inelegant modes of dismounting. 

The human nose is, at its best, a needless excrescence. There are thosewho consider it ornamental, and would regard a face deprived of itsassistance with pity or derision; but it is doubtful whether ouresteem is dictated so much by a sense of its absolute beauty as by thevitiating effect of a universally prevalent fashion. In the case ofbicycle students, as in the young of both sexes, its inutility isaggravated by its persistent annoyance--it requires constant attention. Until one can ride with one hand, and search for, secure, and use apocket handkerchief with the other, cycling is necessarily a constantseries of descents. Nothing can be further from the author's ambitionthan a wanton realism, but Mr. Hoopdriver's nose is a plain and salientfact, and face it we must. And, in addition to this inconvenience, thereare flies. Until the cyclist can steer with one hand, his face isgiven over to Beelzebub. Contemplative flies stroll over it, and trifleabsently with its most sensitive surfaces. The only way to dislodge themis to shake the head forcibly and to writhe one's features violently. This is not only a lengthy and frequently ineffectual method, but oneexceedingly terrifying to foot passengers. And again, sometimes thebeginner rides for a space with one eye closed by perspiration, givinghim a waggish air foreign to his mood and ill calculated to overawethe impertinent. However, you will appreciate now the motive of Mr. Hoopdriver's experiments. He presently attained sufficient dexterityto slap himself smartly and violently in the face with his right hand, without certainly overturning the machine; but his pocket handkerchiefmight have been in California for any good it was to him while he was inthe saddle. 

Yet you must not think that because Mr. Hoopdriver was a littleuncomfortable, he was unhappy in the slightest degree. In the backgroundof his consciousness was the sense that about this time Briggs would behalf-way through his window dressing, and Gosling, the apprentice, busy, with a chair turned down over the counter and his ears very red, tryingto roll a piece of huckaback--only those who have rolled pieces ofhuckaback know quite how detestable huckaback is to roll--and the shopwould be dusty and, perhaps, the governor about and snappy. And here wasquiet and greenery, and one mucked about as the desire took one, without a soul to see, and here was no wailing of "Sayn, " no folding ofremnants, no voice to shout, "Hoopdriver, forward!" And once he almostran over something wonderful, a little, low, red beast with a yellowishtail, that went rushing across the road before him. It was the firstweasel he had ever seen in his cockney life. There were miles of this, scores of miles of this before him, pinewood and oak forest, purple, heathery moorland and grassy down, lush meadows, where shining riverswound their lazy way, villages with square-towered, flint churches, and rambling, cheap, and hearty inns, clean, white, country towns, longdownhill stretches, where one might ride at one's ease (overlooking ajolt or so), and far away, at the end of it all, --the sea. 

What mattered a fly or so in the dawn of these delights? Perhaps he hadbeen dashed a minute by the shameful episode of the Young Lady in Grey, and perhaps the memory of it was making itself a little lair in a cornerof his brain from which it could distress him in the retrospect bysuggesting that he looked like a fool; but for the present that troublewas altogether in abeyance. The man in drab--evidently a swell--hadspoken to him as his equal, and the knees of his brown suit and thechequered stockings were ever before his eyes. (Or, rather, you couldsee the stockings by carrying the head a little to one side. ) And tofeel, little by little, his mastery over this delightful, treacherousmachine, growing and growing! Every half-mile or so his knees reassertedthemselves, and he dismounted and sat awhile by the roadside. 

It was at a charming little place between Esher and Cobham, where abridge crosses a stream, that Mr. Hoopdriver came across the othercyclist in brown. It is well to notice the fact here, although theinterview was of the slightest, because it happened that subsequentlyHoopdriver saw a great deal more of this other man in brown. The othercyclist in brown had a machine of dazzling newness, and a puncturedpneumatic lay across his knees. He was a man of thirty or more, with awhitish face, an aquiline nose, a lank, flaxen moustache, and very fairhair, and he scowled at the job before him. At the sight of him Mr. Hoopdriver pulled himself together, and rode by with the air of one bornto the wheel. "A splendid morning, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, "and a finesurface. "

"The morning and you and the surface be everlastingly damned!" said theother man in brown as Hoopdriver receded. Hoopdriver heard the mumbleand did not distinguish the words, and he felt a pleasing sense ofhaving duly asserted the wide sympathy that binds all cyclists together, of having behaved himself as becomes one of the brotherhood of thewheel. The other man in brown watched his receding aspect. "Greasyproletarian, " said the other man in brown, feeling a prophetic dislike. "Got a suit of brown, the very picture of this. One would think his soleaim in life had been to caricature me. It's Fortune's way with me. Lookat his insteps on the treadles! Why does Heaven make such men?"

And having lit a cigarette, the other man in brown returned to thebusiness in hand. 

Mr. Hoopdriver worked up the hill towards Cobham to a point that he feltsure was out of sight of the other man in brown, and then he dismountedand pushed his machine; until the proximity of the village and a properpride drove him into the saddle again. 

VIII. 

Beyond Cobham came a delightful incident, delightful, that is, in itsbeginning if a trifle indeterminate in the retrospect. It was perhapshalf-way between Cobham and Ripley. Mr. Hoopdriver dropped down a littlehill, where, unfenced from the road, fine mossy trees and bracken lay oneither side; and looking up he saw an open country before him, coveredwith heather and set with pines, and a yellow road running across it, and half a mile away perhaps, a little grey figure by the wayside wavingsomething white. "Never!" said Mr. Hoopdriver with his hands tighteningon the handles. 

He resumed the treadles, staring away before him, jolted over a stone, wabbled, recovered, and began riding faster at once, with his eyesahead. "It can't be, " said Hoopdriver. 

He rode his straightest, and kept his pedals spinning, albeit a limpnumbness had resumed possession of his legs. "It CAN'T be, " he repeated, feeling every moment more assured that it WAS. "Lord! I don't know evennow, " said Mr. Hoopdriver (legs awhirling), and then, "Blow my legs!"

But he kept on and drew nearer and nearer, breathing hard and gatheringflies like a flypaper. In the valley he was hidden. Then the road beganto rise, and the resistance of the pedals grew. As he crested the hillhe saw her, not a hundred yards away from him. "It's her!" he said. "It's her--right enough. It's the suit's done it, "--which was truereven than Mr. Hoopdriver thought. But now she was not waving herhandkerchief, she was not even looking at him. She was wheeling hermachine slowly along the road towards him, and admiring the prettywooded hills towards Weybridge. She might have been unaware of hisexistence for all the recognition he got. 

For a moment horrible doubts troubled Mr. Hoopdriver. Had thathandkerchief been a dream? Besides which he was deliquescent andscarlet, and felt so. It must be her coquetry--the handkerchief wasindisputable. Should he ride up to her and get off, or get off and rideup to her? It was as well she didn't look, because he would certainlycapsize if he lifted his cap. Perhaps that was her consideration. Evenas he hesitated he was upon her. She must have heard his breathing. Hegripped the brake. Steady! His right leg waved in the air, and he camedown heavily and staggering, but erect. She turned her eyes upon himwith admirable surprise. 

Mr. Hoopdriver tried to smile pleasantly, hold up his machine, raise hiscap, and bow gracefully. Indeed, he felt that he did as much. He was aman singularly devoid of the minutiae of self-consciousness, and he wasquite unaware of a tail of damp hair lying across his forehead, and justclearing his eyes, and of the general disorder of his coiffure. Therewas an interrogative pause. 

"What can I have the pleasure--" began Mr. Haopdriver, insinuatingly. "I mean" (remembering his emancipation and abruptly assuming his mostaristocratic intonation), "can I be of any assistance to you?"

The Young Lady in Grey bit her lower lip and said very prettily, "None, thank you. " She glanced away from him and made as if she would proceed. 

"Oh!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, taken aback and suddenly crestfallenagain. It was so unexpected. He tried to grasp the situation. Was shecoquetting? Or had he--?

"Excuse me, one minute, " he said, as she began to wheel her machineagain. 

"Yes?" she said, stopping and staring a little, with the colour in hercheeks deepening. 

"I should not have alighted if I had not--imagined that you--er, wavedsomething white--" He paused. 

She looked at him doubtfully. He HAD seen it! She decided that he wasnot an unredeemed rough taking advantage of a mistake, but an innocentsoul meaning well while seeking happiness. "I DID wave my handkerchief, "she said. "I'm very sorry. I am expecting--a friend, a gentleman, "--sheseemed to flush pink for a minute. "He is riding a bicycle and dressedin--in brown; and at a distance, you know--"

"Oh, quite!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, bearing up in manly fashion againsthis bitter disappointment. "Certainly. "

"I'm awfully sorry, you know. Troubling you to dismount, and all that. "

"No trouble. 'Ssure you, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, mechanically and bowingover his saddle as if it was a counter. Somehow he could not find itin his heart to tell her that the man was beyond there with a puncturedpneumatic. He looked back along the road and tried to think of somethingelse to say. But the gulf in the conversation widened rapidly andhopelessly. "There's nothing further, " began Mr. Hoopdriver desperately, recurring to his stock of cliches. 

"Nothing, thank you, " she said decisively. And immediately, "This IS theRipley road?"

"Certainly, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "Ripley is about two miles from here. According to the mile-stones. "

"Thank you, " she said warmly. "Thank you so much. I felt sure there wasno mistake. And I really am awfully sorry--"

"Don't mention it, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "Don't mention it. " Hehesitated and gripped his handles to mount. "It's me, " he said, "oughtto be sorry. " Should he say it? Was it an impertinence? Anyhow!--"Notbeing the other gentleman, you know. "

He tried a quietly insinuating smile that he knew for a grin even ashe smiled it; felt she disapproved--that she despised him, was overcomewith shame at her expression, turned his back upon her, and began (veryclumsily) to mount. He did so with a horrible swerve, and wentpedalling off, riding very badly, as he was only too painfully aware. Nevertheless, thank Heaven for the mounting! He could not see herbecause it was so dangerous for him to look round, but he could imagineher indignant and pitiless. He felt an unspeakable idiot. One had to beso careful what one said to Young Ladies, and he'd gone and treated herjust as though she was only a Larky Girl. It was unforgivable. Healways WAS a fool. You could tell from her manner she didn't think him agentleman. One glance, and she seemed to look clear through him and allhis presence. What rot it was venturing to speak to a girl like that!With her education she was bound to see through him at once. 

How nicely she spoke too! nice clear-cut words! She made him feel whatslush his own accent was. And that last silly remark. What was it? 'Notbeing the other gentleman, you know!' No point in it. And 'GENTLEMAN!'What COULD she be thinking of him?

But really the Young Lady in Grey had dismissed Hoopdriver from herthoughts almost before he had vanished round the corner. She had thoughtno ill of him. His manifest awe and admiration of her had given her notan atom of offence. But for her just now there were weightier thingsto think about, things that would affect all the rest of her life. Shecontinued slowly walking her machine Londonward. Presently she stopped. "Oh! Why DOESN'T he come?" she said, and stamped her foot petulantly. Then, as if in answer, coming down the hill among the trees, appearedthe other man in brown, dismounted and wheeling his machine. 

IX. HOW MR. HOOPDRIVER WAS HAUNTED

As Mr. Hoopdriver rode swaggering along the Ripley road, it came to him, with an unwarrantable sense of comfort, that he had seen the last of theYoung Lady in Grey. But the ill-concealed bladery of the machine, thepresent machinery of Fate, the deus ex machina, so to speak, was againsthim. The bicycle, torn from this attractive young woman, grew heavierand heavier, and continually more unsteady. It seemed a choice betweenstopping at Ripley or dying in the flower of his days. He went into theUnicorn, after propping his machine outside the door, and, as he cooleddown and smoked his Red Herring cigarette while the cold meat wasgetting ready, he saw from the window the Young Lady in Grey and theother man in brown, entering Ripley. 

They filled him with apprehension by looking at the house whichsheltered him, but the sight of his bicycle, propped in a drunk andincapable attitude against the doorway, humping its rackety mud-guardand leering at them with its darkened lantern eye, drove them away--soit seemed to Mr. Hoopdriver--to the spacious swallow of the GoldenDragon. The young lady was riding very slowly, but the other man inbrown had a bad puncture and was wheeling his machine. Mr. Hoopdrivernoted his flaxen moustache, his aquiline nose, his rather bentshoulders, with a sudden, vivid dislike. 

The maid at the Unicorn is naturally a pleasant girl, but she is jadedby the incessant incidence of cyclists, and Hoopdriver's mind, even ashe conversed with her in that cultivated voice of his--of the weather, of the distance from London, and of the excellence of the Ripleyroad--wandered to the incomparable freshness and brilliance of the YoungLady in Grey. As he sat at meat he kept turning his head to the windowto see what signs there were of that person, but the face of theGolden Dragon displayed no appreciation of the delightful morsel ithad swallowed. As an incidental consequence of this distraction, Mr. Hoopdriver was for a minute greatly inconvenienced by a mouthful ofmustard. After he had called for his reckoning he went, his couragebeing high with meat and mustard, to the door, intending to stand, withhis legs wide apart and his hands deep in his pockets, and stare boldlyacross the road. But just then the other man in brown appeared in thegateway of the Golden Dragon yard--it is one of those delightful innsthat date from the coaching days--wheeling his punctured machine. Hewas taking it to Flambeau's, the repairer's. He looked up and sawHoopdriver, stared for a minute, and then scowled darkly. 

But Hoopdriver remained stoutly in the doorway until the other man inbrown had disappeared into Flambeau's. Then he glanced momentarily atthe Golden Dragon, puckered his mouth into a whistle of unconcern, andproceeded to wheel his machine into the road until a sufficient marginfor mounting was secured. 

Now, at that time, I say, Hoopdriver was rather desirous than not ofseeing no more of the Young Lady in Grey. The other man in brown heguessed was her brother, albeit that person was of a pallid fairness, differing essentially from her rich colouring; and, besides, he felt hehad made a hopeless fool of himself. But the afternoon was against him, intolerably hot, especially on the top of his head, and the virtue hadgone out of his legs to digest his cold meat, and altogether his ride toGuildford was exceedingly intermittent. At times he would walk, at timeslounge by the wayside, and every public house, in spite of Briggs and asentiment of economy, meant a lemonade and a dash of bitter. (For thatis the experience of all those who go on wheels, that drinking begetsthirst, even more than thirst begets drinking, until at last the man whoyields becomes a hell unto himself, a hell in which the fire diethnot, and the thirst is not quenched. ) Until a pennyworth of acrid greenapples turned the current that threatened to carry him away. Ever andagain a cycle, or a party of cyclists, would go by, with glitteringwheels and softly running chains, and on each occasion, to save hisself-respect, Mr. Hoopdriver descended and feigned some trouble with hissaddle. Each time he descended with less trepidation. 

He did not reach Guildford until nearly four o'clock, and then he wasso much exhausted that he decided to put up there for the night, atthe Yellow Hammer Coffee Tavern. And after he had cooled a space andrefreshed himself with tea and bread and butter and jam, --the tea hedrank noisily out of the saucer, --he went out to loiter away the rest ofthe afternoon. Guildford is an altogether charming old town, famous, so he learnt from a Guide Book, as the scene of Master Tupper's greathistorical novel of Stephen Langton, and it has a delightful castle, allset about with geraniums and brass plates commemorating the gentlemenwho put them up, and its Guildhall is a Tudor building, very pleasant tosee, and in the afternoon the shops are busy and the people going to andfro make the pavements look bright and prosperous. It was nice to peepin the windows and see the heads of the men and girls in the drapers'shops, busy as busy, serving away. The High Street runs down at an angleof seventy degrees to the horizon (so it seemed to Mr. Hoopdriver, whosefeeling for gradients was unnaturally exalted), and it brought his heartinto his mouth to see a cyclist ride down it, like a fly crawling down awindow pane. The man hadn't even a brake. He visited the castle early inthe evening and paid his twopence to ascend the Keep. 

At the top, from the cage, he looked down over the clustering red roofsof the town and the tower of the church, and then going to the southernside sat down and lit a Red Herring cigarette, and stared away southover the old bramble-bearing, fern-beset ruin, at the waves of blueupland that rose, one behind another, across the Weald, to the lazyaltitudes of Hindhead and Butser. His pale grey eyes were full ofcomplacency and pleasurable anticipation. Tomorrow he would go ridingacross that wide valley. 

He did not notice any one else had come up the Keep after him until heheard a soft voice behind him saying: "Well, MISS BEAUMONT, here's theview. " Something in the accent pointed to a jest in the name. 

"It's a dear old town, brother George, " answered another voice thatsounded familiar enough, and turning his head, Mr. Hoopdriver saw theother man in brown and the Young Lady in Grey, with their backs towardshim. She turned her smiling profile towards Hoopdriver. "Only, you know, brothers don't call their sisters--"

She glanced over her shoulder and saw Hoopdriver. "Damn!" said the otherman in brown, quite audibly, starting as he followed her glance. 

Mr. Hoopdriver, with a fine air of indifference, resumed the Weald. "Beautiful old town, isn't it?" said the other man in brown, after aquite perceptible pause. 

"Isn't it?" said the Young Lady in Grey. 

Another pause began. 

"Can't get alone anywhere, " said the other man in brown, looking round. 

Then Mr. Hoopdriver perceived clearly that he was in the way, anddecided to retreat. It was just his luck of course that he shouldstumble at the head of the steps and vanish with indignity. This was thethird time that he'd seen HIM, and the fourth time her. And of coursehe was too big a fat-head to raise his cap to HER! He thought of that atthe foot of the Keep. Apparently they aimed at the South Coast justas he did, He'd get up betimes the next day and hurry off to avoidher--them, that is. It never occurred to Mr. Hoopdriver that MissBeaumont and her brother might do exactly the same thing, and thatevening, at least, the peculiarity of a brother calling his sister "MissBeaumont" did not recur to him. He was much too preoccupied with ananalysis of his own share of these encounters. He found it hard to bealtogether satisfied about the figure he had cut, revise his memories ashe would. 

Once more quite unintentionally he stumbled upon these two people. Itwas about seven o'clock. He stopped outside a linen draper's and peeredover the goods in the window at the assistants in torment. He could havespent a whole day happily at that. He told himself that he was tryingto see how they dressed out the brass lines over their counters, in apurely professional spirit, but down at the very bottom of his heart heknew better. The customers were a secondary consideration, and it wasonly after the lapse of perhaps a minute that he perceived that amongthem was--the Young Lady in Grey! He turned away from the windowat once, and saw the other man in brown standing at the edge of thepavement and regarding him with a very curious expression of face. 

There came into Mr. Hoopdriver's head the curious problem whether he wasto be regarded as a nuisance haunting these people, or whether they wereto be regarded as a nuisance haunting him. He abandoned the solution atlast in despair, quite unable to decide upon the course he should takeat the next encounter, whether he should scowl savagely at the couple orassume an attitude eloquent of apology and propitiation. 

X. THE IMAGININGS OF MR. HOOPDRIVER'S HEART

Mr. Hoopdriver was (in the days of this story) a poet, though he hadnever written a line of verse. Or perhaps romancer will describe himbetter. Like I know not how many of those who do the fetching andcarrying of life, --a great number of them certainly, --his real life wasabsolutely uninteresting, and if he had faced it as realistically assuch people do in Mr. Gissing's novels, he would probably have come byway of drink to suicide in the course of a year. But that was just whathe had the natural wisdom not to do. On the contrary, he was alwaysdecorating his existence with imaginative tags, hopes, and poses, deliberate and yet quite effectual self-deceptions; his experiences weremere material for a romantic superstructure. If some power had givenHoopdriver the 'giftie' Burns invoked, 'to see oursels as ithers seeus, ' he would probably have given it away to some one else at the veryearliest opportunity. His entire life, you must understand, was not acontinuous romance, but a series of short stories linked only by thegeneral resemblance of their hero, a brown-haired young fellow commonly, with blue eyes and a fair moustache, graceful rather than strong, sharpand resolute rather than clever (cp. , as the scientific books say, p. 2). Invariably this person possessed an iron will. The storiesfluctuated indefinitely. The smoking of a cigarette convertedHoopdriver's hero into something entirely worldly, subtly rakish, with ahumorous twinkle in the eye and some gallant sinning in the background. You should have seen Mr. Hoopdriver promenading the brilliant gardens atEarl's Court on an early-closing night. His meaning glances! (I dare notgive the meaning. ) Such an influence as the eloquence of a revivalistpreacher would suffice to divert the story into absolutely differentchannels, make him a white-soured hero, a man still pure, walkinguntainted and brave and helpful through miry ways. The appearance ofsome daintily gloved frockcoated gentleman with buttonhole and eyeglasscomplete, gallantly attendant in the rear of customers, served againto start visions of a simplicity essentially Cromwell-like, of sturdyplainness, of a strong, silent man going righteously through the world. This day there had predominated a fine leisurely person immaculatelyclothed, and riding on an unexceptional machine, a mysteriousperson--quite unostentatious, but with accidental self-revelationof something over the common, even a "bloomin' Dook, " it might beincognito, on the tour of the South Coast. 

You must not think that there was any TELLING of these stories of thislife-long series by Mr. Hoopdriver. He never dreamt that they were knownto a soul. If it were not for the trouble, I would, I think, go back andrewrite this section from the beginning, expunging the statements thatHoopdriver was a poet and a romancer, and saying instead that he was aplaywright and acted his own plays. He was not only the sole performer, but the entire audience, and the entertainment kept him almostcontinuously happy. Yet even that playwright comparison scarcelyexpresses all the facts of the case. After all, very many of his dreamsnever got acted at all, possibly indeed, most of them, the dreams ofa solitary walk for instance, or of a tramcar ride, the dreams dreamtbehind the counter while trade was slack and mechanical foldingsand rollings occupied his muscles. Most of them were little dramaticsituations, crucial dialogues, the return of Mr. Hoopdriver to hisnative village, for instance, in a well-cut holiday suit and nattygloves, the unheard asides of the rival neighbours, the delight ofthe old 'mater, ' the intelligence--"A ten-pound rise all at oncefrom Antrobus, mater. Whad d'yer think of that?" or again, the firstwhispering of love, dainty and witty and tender, to the girl he serveda few days ago with sateen, or a gallant rescue of generalised beauty indistress from truculent insult or ravening dog. 

So many people do this--and you never suspect it. You see a tattered ladselling matches in the street, and you think there is nothing betweenhim and the bleakness of immensity, between him and utter abasement, buta few tattered rags and a feeble musculature. And all unseen by you ahost of heaven-sent fatuities swathes him about, even, maybe, as theyswathe you about. Many men have never seen their own profiles or thebacks of their heads, and for the back of your own mind no mirror hasbeen invented. They swathe him about so thickly that the pricks of fatescarce penetrate to him, or become but a pleasant titillation. And so, indeed, it is with all of us who go on living. Self-deception is theanaesthetic of life, while God is carving out our beings. 

But to return from this general vivisection to Mr. Hoopdriver'simaginings. You see now how external our view has been; we have had butthe slightest transitory glimpses of the drama within, of how the thingslooked in the magic mirror of Mr. Hoopdriver's mind. On the road toGuildford and during his encounters with his haunting fellow-cycliststhe drama had presented chiefly the quiet gentleman to whom we havealluded, but at Guildford, under more varied stimuli, he burgeoned outmore variously. There was the house agent's window, for instance, sethim upon a charming little comedy. He would go in, make inquires aboutthat thirty-pound house, get the key possibly and go over it--the thingwould stimulate the clerk's curiosity immensely. He searched his mindfor a reason for this proceeding and discovered that he was a dynamiterneeding privacy. Upon that theory he procured the key, explored thehouse carefully, said darkly that it might suit his special needs, but that there were OTHERS to consult. The clerk, however, did notunderstand the allusion, and merely pitied him as one who had marriedyoung and paired himself to a stronger mind than his own. 

This proceeding in some occult way led to the purchase of a note-bookand pencil, and that started the conception of an artist taking notes. That was a little game Mr. Hoopdriver had, in congenial company, playedin his still younger days--to the infinite annoyance of quite a numberof respectable excursionists at Hastings. In early days Mr. Hoopdriverhad been, as his mother proudly boasted, a 'bit of a drawer, ' but aconscientious and normally stupid schoolmaster perceived the incipienttalent and had nipped it in the bud by a series of lessons in art. However, our principal character figured about quite happily in oldcorners of Guildford, and once the other man in brown, looking out ofthe bay window of the Earl of Kent, saw him standing in a corner bya gateway, note-book in hand, busily sketching the Earl's imposingfeatures. At which sight the other man in brown started back fromthe centre of the window, so as to be hidden from him, and crouchingslightly, watched him intently through the interstices of the lacecurtains. 

XI. OMISSIONS

Now the rest of the acts of Mr. Hoopdriver in Guildford, on the greatopening day of his holidays, are not to be detailed here. How hewandered about the old town in the dusk, and up to the Hogsback to seethe little lamps below and the little stars above come out one afteranother; how he returned through the yellow-lit streets to the YellowHammer Coffee Tavern and supped bravely in the commercial room--a Manamong Men; how he joined in the talk about flying-machines and thepossibilities of electricity, witnessing that flying-machines were "deadcertain to come, " and that electricity was "wonderful, wonderful"; howhe went and watched the billiard playing and said, "Left 'em" severaltimes with an oracular air; how he fell a-yawning; and how he gotout his cycling map and studied it intently, --are things that find nomention here. Nor will I enlarge upon his going into the writing-room, and marking the road from London to Guildford with a fine, bright lineof the reddest of red ink. In his little cyclist hand-book there is adiary, and in the diary there is an entry of these things--it is thereto this day, and I cannot do better than reproduce it here to witnessthat this book is indeed a true one, and no lying fable written to whileaway an hour. 

At last he fell a-yawning so much that very reluctantly indeed he setabout finishing this great and splendid day. (Alas! that all daysmust end at last! ) He got his candle in the hall from a friendlywaiting-maid, and passed upward--whither a modest novelist, who writesfor the family circle, dare not follow. Yet I may tell you that he kneltdown at his bedside, happy and drowsy, and said, "Our Father 'chartin'heaven, " even as he had learnt it by rote from his mother nearly twentyyears ago. And anon when his breathing had become deep and regular, wemay creep into his bedroom and catch him at his dreams. He is lyingupon his left side, with his arm under the pillow. It is dark, and heis hidden; but if you could have seen his face, sleeping there in thedarkness, I think you would have perceived, in spite of that treasured, thin, and straggling moustache, in spite of your memory of the coarsewords he had used that day, that the man before you was, after all, onlya little child asleep. 

XII. THE DREAMS OF MR. HOOPDRIVER

In spite of the drawn blinds and the darkness, you have just seen Mr. Hoopdriver's face peaceful in its beauty sleep in the little, plainbedroom at the very top of the Yellow Hammer Coffee Tavern at Guildford. That was before midnight. As the night progressed he was disturbed bydreams. 

After your first day of cycling one dream is inevitable. A memory ofmotion lingers in the muscles of your legs, and round and round theyseem to go. You ride through Dreamland on wonderful dream bicyclesthat change and grow; you ride down steeples and staircases and overprecipices; you hover in horrible suspense over inhabited towns, vainlyseeking for a brake your hand cannot find, to save you from a headlongfall; you plunge into weltering rivers, and rush helplessly at monstrousobstacles. Anon Mr. Hoopdriver found himself riding out of the darknessof non-existence, pedalling Ezekiel's Wheels across the Weald of Surrey, jolting over the hills and smashing villages in his course, while theother man in brown cursed and swore at him and shouted to stop hiscareer. There was the Putney heath-keeper, too, and the man in drabraging at him. He felt an awful fool, a--what was it?--a juggins, ah!--a Juggernaut. The villages went off one after another with a soft, squashing noise. He did not see the Young Lady in Grey, but he knew shewas looking at his back. He dared not look round. Where the devil wasthe brake? It must have fallen off. And the bell? Right in front of himwas Guildford. He tried to shout and warn the town to get out of theway, but his voice was gone as well. Nearer, nearer! it was fearful! andin another moment the houses were cracking like nuts and the blood ofthe inhabitants squirting this way and that. The streets were black withpeople running. Right under his wheels he saw the Young Lady in Grey. Afeeling of horror came upon Mr. Hoopdriver; he flung himself sidewaysto descend, forgetting how high he was, and forthwith he began falling;falling, falling. 

He woke up, turned over, saw the new moon on the window, wondered alittle, and went to sleep again. 

This second dream went back into the first somehow, and the other manin brown came threatening and shouting towards him. He grew uglier anduglier as he approached, and his expression was intolerably evil. Hecame and looked close into Mr. Hoopdriver's eyes and then receded to anincredible distance. His face seemed to be luminous. "MISS BEAUMONT, " hesaid, and splashed up a spray of suspicion. Some one began lettingoff fireworks, chiefly Catherine wheels, down the shop, though Mr. Hoopdriver knew it was against the rules. For it seemed that the placethey were in was a vast shop, and then Mr. Hoopdriver perceived that theother man in brown was the shop-walker, differing from most shop-walkersin the fact that he was lit from within as a Chinese lantern might be. And the customer Mr. Hoopdriver was going to serve was the Young Ladyin Grey. Curious he hadn't noticed it before. She was in grey asusual, --rationals, --and she had her bicycle leaning against the counter. She smiled quite frankly at him, just as she had done when she hadapologised for stopping him. And her form, as she leant towards him, wasfull of a sinuous grace he had never noticed before. "What can I havethe pleasure?" said Mr. Hoopdriver at once, and she said, "The Ripleyroad. " So he got out the Ripley road and unrolled it and showed it toher, and she said that would do very nicely, and kept on looking at himand smiling, and he began measuring off eight miles by means of the yardmeasure on the counter, eight miles being a dress length, a rationaldress length, that is; and then the other man in brown came up andwanted to interfere, and said Mr. Hoopdriver was a cad, besidesmeasuring it off too slowly. And as Mr. Hoopdriver began to measurefaster, the other man in brown said the Young Lady in Grey had beenthere long enough, and that he WAS her brother, or else she would not betravelling with him, and he suddenly whipped his arm about her waist andmade off with her. It occurred to Mr. Hoopdriver even at the moment thatthis was scarcely brotherly behaviour. Of course it wasn't! The sightof the other man gripping her so familiarly enraged him frightfully; heleapt over the counter forthwith and gave chase. They ran round the shopand up an iron staircase into the Keep, and so out upon the Ripley road. For some time they kept dodging in and out of a wayside hotel withtwo front doors and an inn yard. The other man could not run very fastbecause he had hold of the Young Lady in Grey, but Mr. Hoopdriver washampered by the absurd behaviour of his legs. They would not stretchout; they would keep going round and round as if they were on thetreadles of a wheel, so that he made the smallest steps conceivable. This dream came to no crisis. The chase seemed to last an interminabletime, and all kinds of people, heathkeepers, shopmen, policemen, the oldman in the Keep, the angry man in drab, the barmaid at the Unicorn, menwith flying-machines, people playing billiards in the doorways, silly, headless figures, stupid cocks and hens encumbered with parcelsand umbrellas and waterproofs, people carrying bedroom candles, andsuch-like riffraff, kept getting in his way and annoying him, althoughhe sounded his electric bell, and said, "Wonderful, wonderful!" at everycorner.... 

XIII. HOW MR. HOOPDRIVER WENT TO HASLEMERE

There was some little delay in getting Mr. Hoopdriver's breakfast, sothat after all he was not free to start out of Guildford until just uponthe stroke of nine. He wheeled his machine from the High Street in someperplexity. He did not know whether this young lady, who had seized holdof his imagination so strongly, and her unfriendly and possibly menacingbrother, were ahead of him or even now breakfasting somewhere inGuildford. In the former case he might loiter as he chose; in the latterhe must hurry, and possibly take refuge in branch roads. 

It occurred to him as being in some obscure way strategic, that he wouldleave Guildford not by the obvious Portsmouth road, but by the roadrunning through Shalford. Along this pleasant shady way he feltsufficiently secure to resume his exercises in riding with one handoff the handles, and in staring over his shoulder. He came over onceor twice, but fell on his foot each time, and perceived that he wasimproving. Before he got to Bramley a specious byway snapped him up, ranwith him for half a mile or more, and dropped him as a terrier dropsa walkingstick, upon the Portsmouth again, a couple of miles fromGodalming. He entered Godalming on his feet, for the road through thatdelightful town is beyond dispute the vilest in the world, a mere tumultof road metal, a way of peaks and precipices, and, after a successfulexperiment with cider at the Woolpack, he pushed on to Milford. 

All this time he was acutely aware of the existence of the Young Ladyin Grey and her companion in brown, as a child in the dark is of Bogies. Sometimes he could hear their pneumatics stealing upon him from behind, and looking round saw a long stretch of vacant road. Once he saw farahead of him a glittering wheel, but it proved to be a workingman ridingto destruction on a very tall ordinary. And he felt a curious, vagueuneasiness about that Young Lady in Grey, for which he was altogetherunable to account. Now that he was awake he had forgotten thataccentuated Miss Beaumont that had been quite clear in his dream. Butthe curious dream conviction, that the girl was not really the man'ssister, would not let itself be forgotten. Why, for instance, should aman want to be alone with his sister on the top of a tower? At Milfordhis bicycle made, so to speak, an ass of itself. A finger-post suddenlyjumped out at him, vainly indicating an abrupt turn to the right, and Mr. Hoopdriver would have slowed up and read the inscription, butno!--the bicycle would not let him. The road dropped a little intoMilford, and the thing shied, put down its head and bolted, and Mr. Hoopdriver only thought of the brake when the fingerpost was passed. Then to have recovered the point of intersection would have meantdismounting. For as yet there was no road wide enough for Mr. Hoopdriverto turn in. So he went on his way--or to be precise, he did exactly theopposite thing. The road to the right was the Portsmouth road, and thishe was on went to Haslemere and Midhurst. By that error it came aboutthat he once more came upon his fellow travellers of yesterday, comingon them suddenly, without the slightest preliminary announcement andwhen they least expected it, under the Southwestern Railway arch. "It'shorrible, " said a girlish voice; "it's brutal--cowardly--" And stopped. 

His expression, as he shot out from the archway at them, may have beensomething between a grin of recognition and a scowl of annoyance athimself for the unintentional intrusion. But disconcerted as he was, hewas yet able to appreciate something of the peculiarity of their mutualattitudes. The bicycles were lying by the roadside, and the two ridersstood face to face. The other man in brown's attitude, as it flashedupon Hoopdriver, was a deliberate pose; he twirled his moustache andsmiled faintly, and he was conscientiously looking amused. And the girlstood rigid, her arms straight by her side, her handkerchief clenched inher hand, and her face was flushed, with the faintest touch of red uponher eyelids. She seemed to Mr. Hoopdriver's sense to be indignant. Butthat was the impression of a second. A mask of surprised recognitionfell across this revelation of emotion as she turned her head towardshim, and the pose of the other man in brown vanished too in a momentaryastonishment. And then he had passed them, and was riding on towardsHaslemere to make what he could of the swift picture that hadphotographed itself on his brain. 

"Rum, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "It's DASHED rum!"

"They were having a row. "

"Smirking--" What he called the other man in brown need not trouble us. 

"Annoying her!" That any human being should do that!

"WHY?"

The impulse to interfere leapt suddenly into Mr. Hoopdriver's mind. Hegrasped his brake, descended, and stood looking hesitatingly back. Theystill stood by the railway bridge, and it seemed to Mr. Hoopdriver'sfancy that she was stamping her foot. He hesitated, then turned hisbicycle round, mounted, and rode back towards them, gripping his couragefirmly lest it should slip away and leave him ridiculous. "I'll offer'im a screw 'ammer, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. Then, with a wave of fierceemotion, he saw that the girl was crying. In another moment they heardhim and turned in surprise. Certainly she had been crying; her eyeswere swimming in tears, and the other man in brown looked exceedinglydisconcerted. Mr. Hoopdriver descended and stood over his machine. 

"Nothing wrong, I hope?" he said, looking the other man in brownsquarely in the face. "No accident?"

"Nothing, " said the other man in brown shortly. "Nothing at all, thanks. "

"But, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, with a great effort, "the young lady iscrying. I thought perhaps--"

The Young Lady in Grey started, gave Hoopdriver one swift glance, andcovered one eye with her handkerchief. "It's this speck, " she said. "This speck of dust in my eye. "

"This lady, " said the other man in brown, explaining, "has a gnat in hereye. "

There was a pause. The young lady busied herself with her eye. "Ibelieve it's out, " she said. The other man in brown made movementsindicating commiserating curiosity concerning the alleged fly. Mr. Hoopdriver--the word is his own--stood flabber-gastered. He had all theintuition of the simple-minded. He knew there was no fly. But theground was suddenly cut from his feet. There is a limit toknighterrantry--dragons and false knights are all very well, but flies!Fictitious flies! Whatever the trouble was, it was evidently not hisaffair. He felt he had made a fool of himself again. He would havemumbled some sort of apology; but the other man in brown gave him notime, turned on him abruptly, even fiercely. "I hope, " he said, "thatyour curiosity is satisfied?"

"Certainly, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"Then we won't detain you. "

And, ignominiously, Mr. Hoopdriver turned his machine about, struggledupon it, and resumed the road southward. And when he learnt that he wasnot on the Portsmouth road, it was impossible to turn and go back, forthat would be to face his shame again, and so he had to ride on by BrookStreet up the hill to Haslemere. And away to the right the Portsmouthroad mocked at him and made off to its fastnesses amid the sunlit greenand purple masses of Hindhead, where Mr. Grant Allen writes his Hill TopNovels day by day. 

The sun shone, and the wide blue hill views and pleasant valleys one sawon either hand from the sandscarred roadway, even the sides of the roaditself set about with grey heather scrub and prickly masses of gorse, and pine trees with their year's growth still bright green, against thedarkened needles of the previous years, were fresh and delightful to Mr. Hoopdriver's eyes But the brightness of the day and the day-old sense offreedom fought an uphill fight against his intolerable vexation at thatabominable encounter, and had still to win it when he reached Haslemere. A great brown shadow, a monstrous hatred of the other man in brown, possessed him. He had conceived the brilliant idea of abandoningPortsmouth, or at least giving up the straight way to hisfellow-wayfarers, and of striking out boldly to the left, eastward. Hedid not dare to stop at any of the inviting public-houses in themain street of Haslemere, but turned up a side way and found a littlebeer-shop, the Good Hope, wherein to refresh himself. And there he ateand gossipped condescendingly with an aged labourer, assuming thewhile for his own private enjoyment the attributes of a Lost Heir, andafterwards mounted and rode on towards Northchapel, a place which anumber of finger-posts conspired to boom, but which some insidiousturning prevented him from attaining. 

XIV. HOW MR. HOOPDRIVER REACHED MIDHURST

It was one of my uncle's profoundest remarks that human beings are theonly unreasonable creatures. This observation was so far justified byMr. Hoopdriver that, after spending the morning tortuously avoiding theother man in brown and the Young Lady in Grey, he spent a considerablepart of the afternoon in thinking about the Young Lady in Grey, andcontemplating in an optimistic spirit the possibilities of seeing heragain. Memory and imagination played round her, so that his course waslargely determined by the windings of the road he traversed. Of onegeneral proposition he was absolutely convinced. "There's somethingJuicy wrong with 'em, " said he--once even aloud. But what it was hecould not imagine. He recapitulated the facts. "Miss Beaumont--brotherand sister--and the stoppage to quarrel and weep--" it was perplexingmaterial for a young man of small experience. There was no exertion hehated so much as inference, and after a time he gave up any attemptto get at the realities of the case, and let his imagination go free. Should he ever see her again? Suppose he did--with that other chap notabout. The vision he found pleasantest was an encounter with her, anunexpected encounter at the annual Dancing Class 'Do' at the PutneyAssembly Rooms. Somehow they would drift together, and he would dancewith her again and again. It was a pleasant vision, for you mustunderstand that Mr. Hoopdriver danced uncommonly well. Or again, in theshop, a sudden radiance in the doorway, and she is bowed towards theManchester counter. And then to lean over that counter and murmur, seemingly apropos of the goods under discussion, "I have not forgottenthat morning on the Portsmouth road, " and lower, "I never shall forget. "

At Northchapel Mr. Hoopdriver consulted his map and took counsel andweighed his course of action. Petworth seemed a possible resting-place, or Pullborough; Midhurst seemed too near, and any place over the Downsbeyond, too far, and so he meandered towards Petworth, posing himselfperpetually and loitering, gathering wild flowers and wondering why theyhad no names--for he had never heard of any--dropping them furtivelyat the sight of a stranger, and generally 'mucking about. ' Therewere purple vetches in the hedges, meadowsweet, honeysuckle, belatedbrambles--but the dog-roses had already gone; there were green and redblackberries, stellarias, and dandelions, and in another place whitedead nettles, traveller's-joy, clinging bedstraw, grasses flowering, white campions, and ragged robins. One cornfield was glorious withpoppies, bright scarlet and purple white, and the blue corn-flowers werebeginning. In the lanes the trees met overhead, and the wisps of haystill hung to the straggling hedges. Iri one of the main roads hesteered a perilous passage through a dozen surly dun oxen. Here andthere were little cottages, and picturesque beer-houses with the vividbrewers' boards of blue and scarlet, and once a broad green and achurch, and an expanse of some hundred houses or so. Then he came toa pebbly rivulet that emerged between clumps of sedge loosestrife andforget-me-nots under an arch of trees, and rippled across the road, and there he dismounted, longing to take off shoes and stockings--thosestylish chequered stockings were now all dimmed with dust--and paddlehis lean legs in the chuckling cheerful water. But instead he sat ina manly attitude, smoking a cigarette, for fear lest the Young Lady inGrey should come glittering round the corner. For the flavour of theYoung Lady in Grey was present through it all, mixing with the flowersand all the delight of it, a touch that made this second day quitedifferent from the first, an undertone of expectation, anxiety, andsomething like regret that would not be ignored. 

It was only late in the long evening that, quite abruptly, he beganto repent, vividly and decidedly, having fled these two people. Hewas getting hungry, and that has a curious effect upon the emotionalcolouring of our minds. The man was a sinister brute, Hoopdriver saw ina flash of inspiration, and the girl--she was in some serious trouble. And he who might have helped her had taken his first impulse asdecisive--and bolted. This new view of it depressed him dreadfully. Whatmight not be happening to her now? He thought again of her tears. Surelyit was merely his duty, seeing the trouble afoot, to keep his eye uponit. 

He began riding fast to get quit of such selfreproaches. He foundhimself in a tortuous tangle of roads, and as the dusk was coming on, emerged, not at Petworth but at Easebourne, a mile from Midhurst. "I'mgetting hungry, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, inquiring of a gamekeeper inEasebourne village. "Midhurst a mile, and Petworth five!--Thenks, I'lltake Midhurst. "

He came into Midhurst by the bridge at the watermill, and up the NorthStreet, and a little shop flourishing cheerfully, the cheerful sign ofa teapot, and exhibiting a brilliant array of tobaccos, sweets, andchildren's toys in the window, struck his fancy. A neat, bright-eyedlittle old lady made him welcome, and he was presently suppingsumptuously on sausages and tea, with a visitors' book full of the mosthumorous and flattering remarks about the little old lady, in verse andprose, propped up against his teapot as he ate. Regular good some ofthe jokes were, and rhymes that read well--even with your mouth fullof sausage. Mr. Hoopdriver formed a vague idea of drawing"something"--for his judgment on the little old lady was already formed. He pictured the little old lady discovering it afterwards--"My gracious!One of them Punch men, " she would say. The room had a curtained recessand a chest of drawers, for presently it was to be his bedroom, and theday part of it was decorated with framed Oddfellows' certificates andgiltbacked books and portraits, and kettle-holders, and all kinds ofbeautiful things made out of wool; very comfortable it was indeed. Thewindow was lead framed and diamond paned, and through it one saw thecorner of the vicarage and a pleasant hill crest, in dusky silhouetteagainst the twilight sky. And after the sausages had ceased to be, helit a Red Herring cigarette and went swaggering out into the twilightstreet. All shadowy blue between its dark brick houses, was the street, with a bright yellow window here and there and splashes of green and redwhere the chemist's illumination fell across the road. 

XV. AN INTERLUDE

And now let us for a space leave Mr. Hoopdriver in the dusky MidhurstNorth Street, and return to the two folks beside the railway bridgebetween Milford and Haslemere. She was a girl of eighteen, dark, fine featured, with bright eyes, and a rich, swift colour under herwarm-tinted skin. Her eyes were all the brighter for the tears that swamin them. The man was thirty three or four, fair, with a longish noseoverhanging his sandy flaxen moustache, pale blue eyes, and a head thatstruck out above and behind. He stood with his feet wide apart, his handon his hip, in an attitude that was equally suggestive of defiance andaggression. They had watched Hoopdriver out of sight. The unexpectedinterruption had stopped the flood of her tears. He tugged his abundantmoustache and regarded her calmly. She stood with face averted, obstinately resolved not to speak first. "Your behaviour, " he said atlast, "makes you conspicuous. "

She turned upon him, her eyes and cheeks glowing, her hands clenched. "You unspeakable CAD, " she said, and choked, stamped her little foot, and stood panting. 

"Unspeakable cad! My dear girl! Possible I AM an unspeakable cad. Whowouldn't be--for you?"

"'Dear girl!' How DARE you speak to me like that? YOU--"

"I would do anything--"

"OH!"

There was a moment's pause. She looked squarely into his face, her eyesalight with anger and contempt, and perhaps he flushed a little. Hestroked his moustache, and by an effort maintained his cynical calm. "Let us be reasonable, " he said. 

"Reasonable! That means all that is mean and cowardly and sensual in theworld. "

"You have always had it so--in your generalising way. But let us look atthe facts of the case--if that pleases you better. "

With an impatient gesture she motioned him to go on. 

"Well, " he said, --"you've eloped. "

"I've left my home, " she corrected, with dignity. "I left my homebecause it was unendurable. Because that woman--"

"Yes, yes. But the point is, you have eloped with me. "

"You came with me. You pretended to be my friend. Promised to help me toearn a living by writing. It was you who said, why shouldn't a man andwoman be friends? And now you dare--you dare--"

"Really, Jessie, this pose of yours, this injured innocence--"

"I will go back. I forbid you--I forbid you to stand in the way--"

"One moment. I have always thought that my little pupil was at leastclear-headed. You don't know everything yet, you know. Listen to me fora moment. "

"Haven't I been listening? And you have only insulted me. You who daredonly to talk of friendship, who scarcely dared hint at anything beyond. "

"But you took the hints, nevertheless. You knew. You KNEW. And you didnot mind. MIND! You liked it. It was the fun of the whole thing for you. That I loved you, and could not speak to you. You played with it--"

"You have said all that before. Do you think that justifies you?"

"That isn't all. I made up my mind--Well, to make the game more even. And so I suggested to you and joined with you in this expedition ofyours, invented a sister at Midhurst--I tell you, I HAVEN'T a sister!For one object--"

"Well?"

"To compromise you. "

She started. That was a new way of putting it. For half a minuteneither spoke. Then she began half defiantly: "Much I am compromised. Ofcourse--I have made a fool of myself--"

"My dear girl, you are still on the sunny side of eighteen, and youknow very little of this world. Less than you think. But you will learn. Before you write all those novels we have talked about, you will haveto learn. And that's one point--" He hesitated. "You started and blushedwhen the man at breakfast called you Ma'am. You thought it a funnymistake, but you did not say anything because he was young andnervous--and besides, the thought of being my wife offended yourmodesty. You didn't care to notice it. But--you see; I gave your nameas MRS. Beaumont. " He looked almost apologetic, in spite of his cynicalpose. "MRS. Beaumont, " he repeated, pulling his flaxen moustache andwatching the effect. 

She looked into his eyes speechless. "I am learning fast, " she saidslowly, at last. 

He thought the time had come for an emotional attack. "Jessie, " he said, with a sudden change of voice, "I know all this is mean, isvillanous. But do you think that I have done all this scheming, all thissubterfuge, for any other object--"

She did not seem to listen to his words. "I shall ride home, " she saidabruptly. 

"To her?"

She winced. 

"Just think, " said he, "what she could say to you after this. "

"Anyhow, I shall leave you now. "

"Yes? And go--"

"Go somewhere to earn my living, to be a free woman, to live withoutconventionality--"

"My dear girl, do let us be cynical. You haven't money and you haven'tcredit. No one would take you in. It's one of two things: go back toyour stepmother, or--trust to me. "

"How CAN I?"

"Then you must go back to her. " He paused momentarily, to let thisconsideration have its proper weight. "Jessie, I did not mean to saythe things I did. Upon my honour, I lost my head when I spoke so. If youwill, forgive me. I am a man. I could not help myself. Forgive me, and Ipromise you--"

"How can I trust you?"

"Try me. I can assure you--"

She regarded him distrustfully. 

"At any rate, ride on with me now. Surely we have been in the shadow ofthis horrible bridge long enough. "

"Oh! let me think, " she said, half turning from him and pressing herhand to her brow. 

"THINK! Look here, Jessie. It is ten o'clock. Shall we call a truceuntil one?"

She hesitated, demanded a definition of the truce, and at last agreed. 

They mounted, and rode on in silence, through the sunlight and theheather. Both were extremely uncomfortable and disappointed. She waspale, divided between fear and anger. She perceived she was in a scrape, and tried in vain to think of a way of escape. Only one tangible thingwould keep in her mind, try as she would to ignore it. That was thequite irrelevant fact that his head was singularly like an albinococoanut. He, too, felt thwarted. He felt that this romantic businessof seduction was, after all, unexpectedly tame. But this was only thebeginning. At any rate, every day she spent with him was a day gained. Perhaps things looked worse than they were; that was some consolation. 

XVI. OF THE ARTIFICIAL IN MAN, AND OF THE ZEITGEIST

You have seen these two young people--Bechamel, by-the-bye, is the man'sname, and the girl's is Jessie Milton--from the outside; you have heardthem talking; they ride now side by side (but not too close together, and in an uneasy silence) towards Haslemere; and this chapter willconcern itself with those curious little council chambers inside theirskulls, where their motives are in session and their acts are consideredand passed. 

But first a word concerning wigs and false teeth. Some jester, enlargingupon the increase of bald heads and purblind people, has deduced awonderful future for the children of men. Man, he said, was nowadaysa hairless creature by forty or fifty, and for hair we gave him a wig;shrivelled, and we padded him; toothless, and lo! false teeth set ingold. Did he lose a limb, and a fine, new, artificial one was at hisdisposal; get indigestion, and to hand was artificial digestive fluidor bile or pancreatine, as the case might be. Complexions, too, were replaceable, spectacles superseded an inefficient eye-lens, andimperceptible false diaphragms were thrust into the failing ear. Sohe went over our anatomies, until, at last, he had conjured up a weirdthing of shreds and patches, a simulacrum, an artificial body of aman, with but a doubtful germ of living flesh lurking somewhere in hisrecesses. To that, he held, we were coming. 

How far such odd substitution for the body is possible need not concernus now. But the devil, speaking by the lips of Mr. Rudyard Kipling, hathit that in the case of one Tomlinson, the thing, so far as the soul isconcerned, has already been accomplished. Time was when men hadsimple souls, desires as natural as their eyes, a little reasonablephilanthropy, a little reasonable philoprogenitiveness, hunger, and ataste for good living, a decent, personal vanity, a healthy, satisfyingpugnacity, and so forth. But now we are taught and disciplined foryears and years, and thereafter we read and read for all the time somestrenuous, nerve-destroying business permits. Pedagogic hypnotists, pulpit and platform hypnotists, book-writing hypnotists, newspaper-writing hypnotists, are at us all. This sugar you are eating, they tell us, is ink, and forthwith we reject it with infinite disgust. This black draught of unrequited toil is True Happiness, and down itgoes with every symptom of pleasure. This Ibsen, they say, is dullpast believing, and we yawn and stretch beyond endurance. Pardon! theyinterrupt, but this Ibsen is deep and delightful, and we vie with oneanother in an excess of entertainment. And when we open the heads ofthese two young people, we find, not a straightforward motive on thesurface anywhere; we find, indeed, not a soul so much as an oversoul, a zeitgeist, a congestion of acquired ideas, a highway's feast of fine, confused thinking. The girl is resolute to Live Her Own Life, a phraseyou may have heard before, and the man has a pretty perverted ambitionto be a cynical artistic person of the very calmest description. He ishoping for the awakening of Passion in her, among other things. He knowsPassion ought to awaken, from the text-books he has studied. He knowsshe admires his genius, but he is unaware that she does not admire hishead. He is quite a distinguished art critic in London, and he met herat that celebrated lady novelist's, her stepmother, and here you havethem well embarked upon the Adventure. Both are in the first stage ofrepentance, which consists, as you have probably found for yourself, insetting your teeth hard and saying' "I WILL go on. "

Things, you see, have jarred a little, and they ride on their waytogether with a certain aloofness of manner that promises ill forthe orthodox development of the Adventure. He perceives he was tooprecipitate. But he feels his honour is involved, and meditates thedevelopment of a new attack. And the girl? She is unawakened. Hermotives are bookish, written by a haphazard syndicate of authors, novelists, and biographers, on her white inexperience. An artificialoversoul she is, that may presently break down and reveal a human beingbeneath it. She is still in that schoolgirl phase when a talkative oldman is more interesting than a tongue-tied young one, and when to be aneminent mathematician, say, or to edit a daily paper, seems as fine anambition as any girl need aspire to. Bechaniel was to have helped her toattain that in the most expeditious manner, and here he is beside her, talking enigmatical phrases about passion, looking at her with theoddest expression, and once, and that was his gravest offence, offeringto kiss her. At any rate he has apologised. She still scarcely realises, you see, the scrape she has got into. 

XVII. THE ENCOUNTER AT MIDHURST

We left Mr. Hoopdriver at the door of the little tea, toy, and tobaccoshop. You must not think that a strain is put on coincidence when Itell you that next door to Mrs. Wardor's--that was the name of thebright-eyed, little old lady with whom Mr. Hoopdriver had stopped--isthe Angel Hotel, and in the Angel Hotel, on the night that Mr. Hoopdriver reached Midhurst, were 'Mr. ' and 'Miss' Beaumont, ourBechamel and Jessie Milton. Indeed, it was a highly probable thing; forif one goes through Guildford, the choice of southward roads is limited;you may go by Petersfield to Portsmouth, or by Midhurst to Chichester, in addition to which highways there is nothing for it but minor roadwaysto Petworth or Pulborough, and cross-cuts Brightonward. And coming toMidhurst from the north, the Angel's entrance lies yawning to engulfyour highly respectable cyclists, while Mrs. Wardor's genial teapot isequally attractive to those who weigh their means in little scales. But to people unfamiliar with the Sussex roads--and such were thethree persons of this story--the convergence did not appear to be soinevitable. 

Bechamel, tightening his chain in the Angel yard after dinner, was thefirst to be aware of their reunion. He saw Hoopdriver walk slowly acrossthe gateway, his head enhaloed in cigarette smoke, and pass out of sightup the street. Incontinently a mass of cloudy uneasiness, that had beenpartly dispelled during the day, reappeared and concentrated rapidlyinto definite suspicion. He put his screw hammer into his pocket andwalked through the archway into the street, to settle the businessforthwith, for he prided himself on his decision. Hoopdriver was merelypromenading, and they met face to face. 

At the sight of his adversary, something between disgust and laughterseized Mr. Hoopdriver and for a moment destroyed his animosity. "'Erewe are again!" he said, laughing insincerely in a sudden outbreak at theperversity of chance. 

The other man in brown stopped short in Mr. Hoopdriver's way, staring. Then his face assumed an expression of dangerous civility. "Is it anyinformation to you, " he said, with immense politeness, "when I remarkthat you are following us?"

Mr. Hoopdriver, for some occult reason, resisted his characteristicimpulse to apologise. He wanted to annoy the other man in brown, and asentence that had come into his head in a previous rehearsal cropped upappropriately. "Since when, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, catching his breath, yet bringing the question out valiantly, nevertheless, --"since when 'aveyou purchased the county of Sussex?"

"May I point out, " said the other man in brown, "that I object--weobject not only to your proximity to us. To be frank--you appear to befollowing us--with an object. "

"You can always, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, "turn round if you don't like it, and go back the way you came. "

"Oh-o!" said the other man in brown. "THAT'S it! I thought as much. "

"Did you?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, quite at sea, but rising pluckily to theunknown occasion. What was the man driving at?

"I see, " said the other man. "I see. I half suspected--" His mannerchanged abruptly to a quality suspiciously friendly. "Yes--a word withyou. You will, I hope, give me ten minutes. "

Wonderful things were dawning on Mr. Hoopdriver. What did the other mantake him for? Here at last was reality! He hesitated. Then he thought ofan admirable phrase. "You 'ave some communication--"

"We'll call it a communication, " said the other man. 

"I can spare you the ten minutes, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, with dignity. 

"This way, then, " said the other man in brown, and they walked slowlydown the North Street towards the Grammar School. There was, perhaps, thirty seconds' silence. The other man stroked his moustache nervously. Mr. Hoopdriver's dramatic instincts were now fully awake. He didnot quite understand in what role he was cast, but it was evidentlysomething dark and mysterious. Doctor Conan Doyle, Victor Hugo, andAlexander Dumas were well within Mr. Hoopdriver's range of reading, andhe had not read them for nothing. 

"I will be perfectly frank with you, " said the other man in brown. 

"Frankness is always the best course, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"Well, then--who the devil set you on this business?"

"Set me ON this business?"

"Don't pretend to be stupid. Who's your employer? Who engaged you forthis job?"

"Well, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, confused. "No--I can't say. "

"Quite sure?" The other man in brown glanced meaningly down at his hand, and Mr. Hoopdriver, following him mechanically, saw a yellow milled edgeglittering in the twilight. Now your shop assistant is just above thetip-receiving class, and only just above it--so that he is acutelysensitive on the point. 

Mr. Hoopdriver flushed hotly, and his eyes were angry as he met thoseof the other man in brown. "Stow it!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, stopping andfacing the tempter. 

"What!" said the other man in brown, surprised. "Eigh?" And so saying hestowed it in his breeches pocket. 

"D'yer think I'm to be bribed?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, whose imaginationwas rapidly expanding the situation. "By Gosh! I'd follow you now--"

"My dear sir, " said the other man in brown, "I beg your pardon. Imisunderstood you. I really beg your pardon. Let us walk on. In yourprofession--"

"What have you got to say against my profession?"

"Well, really, you know. There are detectives of an inferiordescription--watchers. The whole class. Private Inquiry--I did notrealise--I really trust you will overlook what was, after all--you mustadmit--a natural indiscretion. Men of honour are not so common in theworld--in any profession. "

It was lucky for Mr. Hoopdriver that in Midhurst they do not light thelamps in the summer time, or the one they were passing had betrayed him. As it was, he had to snatch suddenly at his moustache and tug fiercelyat it, to conceal the furious tumult of exultation, the passion oflaughter, that came boiling up. Detective! Even in the shadow Bechamelsaw that a laugh was stifled, but he put it down to the fact that thephrase "men of honour" amused his interlocutor. "He'll come round yet, "said Bechamel to himself. "He's simply holding out for a fiver. " Hecoughed. 

"I don't see that it hurts you to tell me who your employer is. "

"Don't you? I do. "

"Prompt, " said Bechamel, appreciatively. "Now here's the thing I want toput to you--the kernel of the whole business. You need not answer ifyou don't want to. There's no harm done in my telling you what I want toknow. Are you employed to watch me--or Miss Milton?"

"I'm not the leaky sort, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, keeping the secret he didnot know with immense enjoyment. Miss Milton! That was her name. Perhapshe'd tell some more. "It's no good pumping. Is that all you're after?"said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

Bechamel respected himself for his diplomatic gifts. He tried to catcha remark by throwing out a confidence. "I take it there are two peopleconcerned in watching this affair. "

"Who's the other?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, calmly, but controlling withenormous internal tension his self-appreciation. "Who's the other?" wasreally brilliant, he thought. 

"There's my wife and HER stepmother. "

"And you want to know which it is?"

"Yes, " said Bechamel. 

"Well--arst 'em!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, his exultation getting the betterof him, and with a pretty consciousness of repartee. "Arst 'em both. "

Bechamel turned impatiently. Then he made a last effort. "I'd give afive-pound note to know just the precise state of affairs, " he said. 

"I told you to stow that, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, in a threatening tone. And added with perfect truth and a magnificent mystery, "You don't quiteunderstand who you're dealing with. But you will!" He spoke with suchconviction that he half believed that that defective office of his inLondon--Baker Street, in fact--really existed. 

With that the interview terminated. Bechamel went back to the Angel, perturbed. "Hang detectives!" It wasn't the kind of thing he hadanticipated at all. Hoopdriver, with round eyes and a wondering smile, walked down to where the mill waters glittered in the moonlight, andafter meditating over the parapet of the bridge for a space, withoccasional murmurs of, "Private Inquiry" and the like, returned, withmystery even in his paces, towards the town. 

XVIII. 

That glee which finds expression in raised eyebrows and long, lowwhistling noises was upon Mr. Hoopdriver. For a space he forgot thetears of the Young Lady in Grey. Here was a new game!--and a real one. Mr. Hoopdriver as a Private Inquiry Agent, a Sherlock Holmes in fact, keeping these two people 'under observation. ' He walked slowly back fromthe bridge until he was opposite the Angel, and stood for ten minutes, perhaps, contemplating that establishment and enjoying all the strangesensations of being this wonderful, this mysterious and terrible thing. Everything fell into place in his scheme. He had, of course, by a kindof instinct, assumed the disguise of a cyclist, picked up the firstold crock he came across as a means of pursuit. 'No expense was to bespared. '

Then he tried to understand what it was in particular that he wasobserving. "My wife"--"HER stepmother!" Then he remembered her swimmingeyes. Abruptly came a wave of anger that surprised him, washed away thedetective superstructure, and left him plain Mr. Hoopdriver. This man inbrown, with his confident manner, and his proffered half sovereign (damnhim!) was up to no good, else why should he object to being watched? Hewas married! She was not his sister. He began to understand. A horriblesuspicion of the state of affairs came into Mr. Hoopdriver's head. Surely it had not come to THAT. He was a detective!--he would findout. How was it to be done? He began to submit sketches on approval tohimself. It required an effort before he could walk into the Angel bar. "A lemonade and bitter, please, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

He cleared his throat. "Are Mr. And Mrs. Bowlong stopping here?"

"What, a gentleman and a young lady--on bicycles?"

"Fairly young--a married couple. "

"No, " said the barmaid, a talkative person of ample dimensions. "There'sno married couples stopping here. But there's a Mr. And Miss BEAUMONT. "She spelt it for precision. "Sure you've got the name right, young man?"

"Quite, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"Beaumont there is, but no one of the name of--What was the name yougave?"

"Bowlong, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"No, there ain't no Bowlong, " said the barmaid, taking up a glassclothand a drying tumbler and beginning to polish the latter. "First off, Ithought you might be asking for Beaumont--the names being similar. Wereyou expecting them on bicycles?"

"Yes--they said they MIGHT be in Midhurst tonight. "

"P'raps they'll come presently. Beaumont's here, but no Bowlong. Surethat Beaumont ain't the name?"

"Certain, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"It's curious the names being so alike. I thought p'raps--"

And so they conversed at some length, Mr. Hoopdriver delighted to findhis horrible suspicion disposed of. The barmaid having listened awhileat the staircase volunteered some particulars of the young coupleupstairs. Her modesty was much impressed by the young lady's costume, soshe intimated, and Mr. Hoopdriver whispered the badinage natural to theoccasion, at which she was coquettishly shocked. "There'll be no knowingwhich is which, in a year or two, " said the barmaid. "And her mannertoo! She got off her machine and give it 'im to stick up against thekerb, and in she marched. 'I and my brother, ' says she, 'want to stophere to-night. My brother doesn't mind what kind of room 'e 'as, but Iwant a room with a good view, if there's one to be got, ' says she. Hecomes hurrying in after and looks at her. 'I've settled the rooms, ' shesays, and 'e says 'damn!' just like that. I can fancy my brother lettingme boss the show like that. "

"I dessay you do, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, "if the truth was known. "

The barmaid looked down, smiled and shook her head, put down thetumbler, polished, and took up another that had been draining, and shookthe drops of water into her little zinc sink. 

"She'll be a nice little lot to marry, " said the barmaid. "She'll bewearing the--well, b-dashes, as the sayin' is. I can't think what girlsis comin' to. "

This depreciation of the Young Lady in Grey was hardly to Hoopdriver'staste. 

"Fashion, " said he, taking up his change. "Fashion is all the go withyou ladies--and always was. You'll be wearing 'em yourself before acouple of years is out. "

"Nice they'd look on my figger, " said the barmaid, with a titter. "No--Iain't one of your fashionable sort. Gracious no! I shouldn't feel asif I'd anything on me, not more than if I'd forgot--Well, there! I'mtalking. " She put down the glass abruptly. "I dessay I'm old fashioned, "she said, and walked humming down the bar. 

"Not you, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. He waited until he caught her eye, thenwith his native courtesy smiled, raised his cap, and wished her goodevening. 

XIX. 

Then Mr. Hoopdriver returned to the little room with the lead-framedwindows where he had dined, and where the bed was now comfortably made, sat down on the box under the window, stared at the moon rising onthe shining vicarage roof, and tried to collect his thoughts. How theywhirled at first! It was past ten, and most of Midhurst was tuckedaway in bed, some one up the street was learning the violin, at rareintervals a belated inhabitant hurried home and woke the echoes, and acorncrake kept up a busy churning in the vicarage garden. The sky wasdeep blue, with a still luminous afterglow along the black edge of thehill, and the white moon overhead, save for a couple of yellow stars, had the sky to herself. 

At first his thoughts were kinetic, of deeds and not relationships. There was this malefactor, and his victim, and it had fallen on Mr. Hoopdriver to take a hand in the game. HE was married. Did she know hewas married? Never for a moment did a thought of evil concerning hercross Hoopdriver's mind. Simple-minded people see questions of morals somuch better than superior persons--who have read and thought themselvescomplex to impotence. He had heard her voice, seen the frank light inher eyes, and she had been weeping--that sufficed. The rights of thecase he hadn't properly grasped. But he would. And that smirking--well, swine was the mildest for him. He recalled the exceedingly unpleasantincident of the railway bridge. "Thin we won't detain yer, thenks, "said Mr. Hoopdriver, aloud, in a strange, unnatural, contemptible voice, supposed to represent that of Bechamel. "Oh, the BEGGAR! I'll be levelwith him yet. He's afraid of us detectives--that I'll SWEAR. " (If Mrs. Wardor should chance to be on the other side of the door within earshot, well and good. )

For a space he meditated chastisements and revenges, physicalimpossibilities for the most part, --Bechamel staggering headlong fromthe impact of Mr. Hoopdriver's large, but, to tell the truth, illsupported fist, Bechamel's five feet nine of height lifted from theground and quivering under a vigorously applied horsewhip. So pleasantwas such dreaming, that Mr. Hoopdriver's peaked face under the moonlightwas transfigured. One might have paired him with that well-known anduniversally admired triumph, 'The Soul's Awakening, ' so sweet was hisecstasy. And presently with his thirst for revenge glutted by six orseven violent assaults, a duel and two vigorous murders, his mind cameround to the Young Lady in Grey again. 

She was a plucky one too. He went over the incident the barmaid atthe Angel had described to him. His thoughts ceased to be a torrent, smoothed down to a mirror in which she was reflected with infiniteclearness and detail. He'd never met anything like her before. Fancythat bolster of a barmaid being dressed in that way! He whuffed acontemptuous laugh. He compared her colour, her vigour, her voice, withthe Young Ladies in Business with whom his lot had been cast. Even intears she was beautiful, more beautiful indeed to him, for it made herseem softer and weaker, more accessible. And such weeping as he had seenbefore had been so much a matter of damp white faces, red noses, andhair coming out of curl. Your draper's assistant becomes something of ajudge of weeping, because weeping is the custom of all Young Ladies inBusiness, when for any reason their services are dispensed with. Shecould weep--and (by Gosh!) she could smile. HE knew that, and revertingto acting abruptly, he smiled confidentially at the puckered pallor ofthe moon. 

It is difficult to say how long Mr. Hoopdriver's pensiveness lasted. It seemed a long time before his thoughts of action returned. Then heremembered he was a 'watcher'; that to-morrow he must be busy. It wouldbe in character to make notes, and he pulled out his little note-book. With that in hand he fell a-thinking again. Would that chap tell her the'tecks were after them? If so, would she be as anxious to get away as HEwas? He must be on the alert. If possible he must speak to her. Justa significant word, "Your friend--trust me!"--It occurred to him thatto-morrow these fugitives might rise early to escape. At that he thoughtof the time and found it was half-past eleven. "Lord!" said he, "I mustsee that I wake. " He yawned and rose. The blind was up, and he pulledback the little chintz curtains to let the sunlight strike across tothe bed, hung his watch within good view of his pillow, on a nail thatsupported a kettle-holder, and sat down on his bed to undress. He layawake for a little while thinking of the wonderful possibilities of themorrow, and thence he passed gloriously into the wonderland of dreams. 

XX. THE PURSUIT

And now to tell of Mr. Hoopdriver, rising with the sun, vigilant, active, wonderful, the practicable half of the lead-framed window stuckopen, ears alert, an eye flickering incessantly in the corner panes, inoblique glances at the Angel front. Mrs. Wardor wanted him to havehis breakfast downstairs in her kitchen, but that would have meantabandoning the watch, and he held out strongly. The bicycle, cap-a-pie, occupied, under protest, a strategic position in the shop. He wasexpectant by six in the morning. By nine horrible fears oppressed himthat his quest had escaped him, and he had to reconnoitre the Angelyard in order to satisfy himself. There he found the ostler (How are themighty fallen in these decadent days!) brushing down the bicycles of thechase, and he returned relieved to Mrs. Wardor's premises. And aboutten they emerged, and rode quietly up the North Street. He watched themuntil they turned the corner of the post office, and then out into theroad and up after them in fine style! They went by the engine-housewhere the old stocks and the whipping posts are, and on to theChichester road, and he followed gallantly. So this great chase began. 

They did not look round, and he kept them just within sight, gettingdown if he chanced to draw closely upon them round a corner. By ridingvigorously he kept quite conveniently near them, for they made butlittle hurry. He grew hot indeed, and his knees were a little stiff tobegin with, but that was all. There was little danger of losing them, for a thin chalky dust lay upon the road, and the track of her tire wasmilled like a shilling, and his was a chequered ribbon along the way. So they rode by Cobden's monument and through the prettiest of villages, until at last the downs rose steeply ahead. There they stopped awhile atthe only inn in the place, and Mr. Hoopdriver took up a position whichcommanded the inn door, and mopped his face and thirsted and smoked aRed Herring cigarette. They remained in the inn for some time. A numberof chubby innocents returning home from school, stopped and formed aline in front of him, and watched him quietly but firmly for the spaceof ten minutes or so. "Go away, " said he, and they only seemed quietlyinterested. He asked them all their names then, and they answeredindistinct murmurs. He gave it up at last and became passive on hisgate, and so at length they tired of him. 

The couple under observation occupied the inn so long that Mr. Hoopdriver at the thought of their possible employment hungered as wellas thirsted. Clearly, they were lunching. It was a cloudless day, andthe sun at the meridian beat down upon the top of Mr. Hoopdriver's head, a shower bath of sunshine, a huge jet of hot light. It made his headswim. At last they emerged, and the other man in brown looked back andsaw him. They rode on to the foot of the down, and dismounting beganto push tediously up that long nearly vertical ascent of blinding whiteroad, Mr. Hoopdriver hesitated. It might take them twenty minutes tomount that. Beyond was empty downland perhaps for miles. He decided toreturn to the inn and snatch a hasty meal. 

At the inn they gave him biscuits and cheese and a misleading pewtermeasure of sturdy ale, pleasant under the palate, cool in the throat, but leaden in the legs, of a hot afternoon. He felt a man of substanceas he emerged in the blinding sunshine, but even by the foot of the downthe sun was insisting again that his skull was too small for his brains. The hill had gone steeper, the chalky road blazed like a magnesiumlight, and his front wheel began an apparently incurable squeaking. Hefelt as a man from Mars would feel if he were suddenly transferred tothis planet, about three times as heavy as he was wont to feel. The twolittle black figures had vanished over the forehead of the hill. "Thetracks'll be all right, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

That was a comforting reflection. It not only justified a slow progressup the hill, but at the crest a sprawl on the turf beside the road, tocontemplate the Weald from the south. In a matter of two days he hadcrossed that spacious valley, with its frozen surge of green hills, itslittle villages and townships here and there, its copses and cornfields, its ponds and streams like jewelery of diamonds and silver glitteringin the sun. The North Downs were hidden, far away beyond the WealdenHeights. Down below was the little village of Cocking, and half-way upthe hill, a mile perhaps to the right, hung a flock of sheep grazingtogether. Overhead an anxious peewit circled against the blue, and everynow and then emitted its feeble cry. Up here the heat was tempered bya pleasant breeze. Mr. Hoopdriver was possessed by unreasonablecontentment; he lit himself a cigarette and lounged more comfortably. Surely the Sussex ale is made of the waters of Lethe, of poppies andpleasant dreams. Drowsiness coiled insidiously about him. 

He awoke with a guilty start, to find himself sprawling prone on theturf with his cap over one eye. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and realisedthat he had slept. His head was still a trifle heavy. And the chase? Hejumped to his feet and stooped to pick up his overturned machine. Hewhipped out his watch and saw that it was past two o'clock. "Lord loveus, fancy that!--But the tracks'll be all right, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, wheeling his machine back to the chalky road. "I must scorch till Iovertake them. "

He mounted and rode as rapidly as the heat and a lingering lassitudepermitted. Now and then he had to dismount to examine the surface wherethe road forked. He enjoyed that rather. "Trackin', " he said aloud, anddecided in the privacy of his own mind that he had a wonderful instinctfor 'spoor. ' So he came past Goodwood station and Lavant, and approachedChichester towards four o'clock. And then came a terrible thing. Inplaces the road became hard, in places were the crowded indentations ofa recent flock of sheep, and at last in the throat of the town cobblesand the stony streets branching east, west, north, and south, at a stonecross under the shadow of the cathedral the tracks vanished. "O Cricky!"said Mr. Hoopdriver, dismounting in dismay and standing agape. "Droppedanything?" said an inhabitant at the kerb. "Yes, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, "I've lost the spoor, " and walked upon his way, leaving the inhabitantmarvelling what part of a bicycle a spoor might be. Mr. Hoopdriver, abandoning tracking, began asking people if they had seen a Young Ladyin Grey on a bicycle. Six casual people hadn't, and he began to feel theinquiry was conspicuous, and desisted. But what was to be done?

Hoopdriver was hot, tired, and hungry, and full of the first gnawings ofa monstrous remorse. He decided to get himself some tea and meat, andin the Royal George he meditated over the business in a melancholyframe enough. They had passed out of his world--vanished, and all hiswonderful dreams of some vague, crucial interference collapsed like acastle of cards. What a fool he had been not to stick to them like aleech! He might have thought! But there!--what WAS the good of thatsort of thing now? He thought of her tears, of her helplessness, ofthe bearing of the other man in brown, and his wrath and disappointmentsurged higher. "What CAN I do?" said Mr. Hoopdriver aloud, bringing hisfist down beside the teapot. 

What would Sherlock Holmes have done? Perhaps, after all, there might besuch things as clues in the world, albeit the age of miracles was past. But to look for a clue in this intricate network of cobbled streets, toexamine every muddy interstice! There was a chance by looking aboutand inquiry at the various inns. Upon that he began. But of course theymight have ridden straight through and scarcely a soul have marked them. And then came a positively brilliant idea. "'Ow many ways are there outof Chichester?" said Mr. Hoopdriver. It was really equal to SherlockHolmes--that. "If they've made tracks, I shall find those tracks. Ifnot--they're in the town. " He was then in East Street, and he startedat once to make the circuit of the place, discovering incidentally thatChichester is a walled city. In passing, he made inquiries at the BlackSwan, the Crown, and the Red Lion Hotel. At six o'clock in the evening, he was walking downcast, intent, as one who had dropped money, alongthe road towards Bognor, kicking up the dust with his shoes and frettingwith disappointed pugnacity. A thwarted, crestfallen Hoopdriver itwas, as you may well imagine. And then suddenly there jumped upon hisattention--a broad line ribbed like a shilling, and close beside itone chequered, that ever and again split into two. "Found!" said Mr. Hoopdriver and swung round on his heel at once, and back to the RoyalGeorge, helter skelter, for the bicycle they were minding for him. Theostler thought he was confoundedly imperious, considering his machine. 

XXI. AT BOGNOR

That seductive gentleman, Bechamel, had been working up to a crisis. He had started upon this elopement in a vein of fine romance, immenselyproud of his wickedness, and really as much in love as an artificialoversoul can be, with Jessie. But either she was the profoundest ofcoquettes or she had not the slightest element of Passion (with a largeP) in her composition. It warred with all his ideas of himself and thefeminine mind to think that under their flattering circumstances shereally could be so vitally deficient. He found her persistent coolness, her more or less evident contempt for himself, exasperating in thehighest degree. He put it to himself that she was enough to provokea saint, and tried to think that was piquant and enjoyable, but theblisters on his vanity asserted themselves. The fact is, he was, underthis standing irritation, getting down to the natural man in himself foronce, and the natural man in himself, in spite of Oxford and the juniorReviewers' Club, was a Palaeolithic creature of simple tastes andviolent methods. "I'll be level with you yet, " ran like a plough throughthe soil of his thoughts. 

Then there was this infernal detective. Bechamel had told his wifehe was going to Davos to see Carter. To that he had fancied shewas reconciled, but how she would take this exploit was entirelyproblematical. She was a woman of peculiar moral views, and she measuredmarital infidelity largely by its proximity to herself. Out of hersight, and more particularly out of the sight of the other women of herset, vice of the recognised description was, perhaps, permissible tothose contemptible weaklings, men, but this was Evil on the High Roads. She was bound to make a fuss, and these fusses invariably took the finalform of a tightness of money for Bechamel. Albeit, and he felt it washeroic of him to resolve so, it was worth doing if it was to be done. His imagination worked on a kind of matronly Valkyrie, and the noise ofpursuit and vengeance was in the air. The idyll still had the front ofthe stage. That accursed detective, it seemed, had been thrown off thescent, and that, at any rate, gave a night's respite. But things must bebrought to an issue forthwith. 

By eight o'clock in the evening, in a little dining-room in the VicunaHotel, Bognor, the crisis had come, and Jessie, flushed and angry in theface and with her heart sinking, faced him again for her last strugglewith him. He had tricked her this time, effectually, and luck had beenon his side. She was booked as Mrs. Beaumont. Save for her refusal toenter their room, and her eccentricity of eating with unwashed hands, she had so far kept up the appearances of things before the waiter. But the dinner was grim enough. Now in turn she appealed to his betternature and made extravagant statements of her plans to fool him. 

He was white and vicious by this time, and his anger quivered throughhis pose of brilliant wickedness. 

"I will go to the station, " she said. "I will go back--"

"The last train for anywhere leaves at 7. 42. "

"I will appeal to the police--"

"You don't know them. "

"I will tell these hotel people. "

"They will turn you out of doors. You're in such a thoroughly falseposition now. They don't understand unconventionality, down here. "

She stamped her foot. "If I wander about the streets all night--" shesaid. 

"You who have never been out alone after dusk? Do you know what thestreets of a charming little holiday resort are like--"

"I don't care, " she said. "I can go to the clergyman here. "

"He's a charming man. Unmarried. And men are really more alike than youthink. And anyhow--"

"Well?"

"How CAN you explain the last two nights to anyone now? The mischief isdone, Jessie. "

"You CUR, " she said, and suddenly put her hand to her breast. He thoughtshe meant to faint, but she stood, with the colour gone from her face. 

"No, " he said. "I love you. "

"Love!" said she. 

"Yes--love. "

"There are ways yet, " she said, after a pause. 

"Not for you. You are too full of life and hope yet for, what isit?--not the dark arch nor the black flowing river. Don't you think ofit. You'll only shirk it when the moment comes, and turn it all intocomedy. "

She turned round abruptly from him and stood looking out across theparade at the shining sea over which the afterglow of day fled beforethe rising moon. He maintained his attitude. The blinds were still up, for she had told the waiter not to draw them. There was silence for somemoments. 

At last he spoke in as persuasive a voice as he could summon. "Take itsensibly, Jessie. Why should we, who have so much in common, quarrelinto melodrama? I swear I love you. You are all that is bright anddesirable to me. I am stronger than you, older; man to your woman. Tofind YOU too--conventional!"

She looked at him over her shoulder, and he noticed with a twinge ofdelight how her little chin came out beneath the curve of her cheek. 

"MAN!" she said. "Man to MY woman! Do MEN lie? Would a MAN use his fiveand thirty years' experience to outwit a girl of seventeen? Man to mywoman indeed! That surely is the last insult!"

"Your repartee is admirable, Jessie. I should say they do, though--allthat and more also when their hearts were set on such a girl asyourself. For God's sake drop this shrewishness! Why should you beso--difficult to me? Here am I with MY reputation, MY career, at yourfeet. Look here, Jessie--on my honour, I will marry you--"

"God forbid, " she said, so promptly that she never learnt he had a wife, even then. It occurred to him then for the first time, in the flash ofher retort, that she did not know he was married. 

"'Tis only a pre-nuptial settlement, " he said, following that hint. 

He paused. 

"You must be sensible. The thing's your own doing. Come out on the beachnow the beach here is splendid, and the moon will soon be high. "

"_I_ WON'T" she said, stamping her foot. 

"Well, well--"

"Oh! leave me alone. Let me think--"

"Think, " he said, "if you want to. It's your cry always. But you can'tsave yourself by thinking, my dear girl. You can't save yourself in anyway now. If saving it is--this parsimony--"

"Oh, go--go. "

"Very well. I will go. I will go and smoke a cigar. And think of you, dear.... But do you think I should do all this if I did not care?"

"Go, " she whispered, without glancing round. She continued to stareout of the window. He stood looking at her for a moment, with a strangelight in his eyes. He made a step towards her. "I HAVE you, ", he said. "You are mine. Netted--caught. But mine. " He would have gone up to herand laid his hand upon her, but he did not dare to do that yet. "I haveyou in my hand, " he said, "in my power. Do you hear--POWER!"

She remained impassive. He stared at her for half a minute, and then, with a superb gesture that was lost upon her, went to the door. Surelythe instinctive abasement of her sex before Strength was upon his side. He told himself that his battle was won. She heard the handle move andthe catch click as the door closed behind him. 

XXII. 

And now without in the twilight behold Mr. Hoopdriver, his cheekshot, his eye bright! His brain is in a tumult. The nervous, obsequiousHoopdriver, to whom I introduced you some days since, has undergone awonderful change. Ever since he lost that 'spoor' in Chichester, he hasbeen tormented by the most horrible visions of the shameful insults thatmay be happening. The strangeness of new surroundings has been workingto strip off the habitual servile from him. Here was moonlight risingover the memory of a red sunset, dark shadows and glowing orange lamps, beauty somewhere mysteriously rapt away from him, tangible wrong in abrown suit and an unpleasant face, flouting him. Mr. Hoopdriver forthe time, was in the world of Romance and Knight-errantry, divinelyforgetful of his social position or hers; forgetting, too, for the timeany of the wretched timidities that had tied him long since behind thecounter in his proper place. He was angry and adventurous. It was allabout him, this vivid drama he had fallen into, and it was eluding him. He was far too grimly in earnest to pick up that lost thread and make aplay of it now. The man was living. He did not pose when he alighted atthe coffee tavern even, nor when he made his hasty meal. 

As Bechamel crossed from the Vicuna towards the esplanade, Hoopdriver, disappointed and exasperated, came hurrying round the corner from theTemperance Hotel. At the sight of Bechamel, his heart jumped, and thetension of his angry suspense exploded into, rather than gave place to, an excited activity of mind. They were at the Vicuna, and she was therenow alone. It was the occasion he sought. But he would give Chance nochance against him. He went back round the corner, sat down on the seat, and watched Bechamel recede into the dimness up the esplanade, before hegot up and walked into the hotel entrance. "A lady cyclist in grey, " heasked for, and followed boldly on the waiter's heels. The door of thedining-room was opening before he felt a qualm. And then suddenly he wasnearly minded to turn and run for it, and his features seemed to him tobe convulsed. 

She turned with a start, and looked at him with something between terrorand hope in her eyes. 

"Can I--have a few words--with you, alone?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, controlling his breath with difficulty. She hesitated, and then motionedthe waiter to withdraw. 

Mr. Hoopdriver watched the door shut. He had intended to step out intothe middle of the room, fold his arms and say, "You are in trouble. Iam a Friend. Trust me. " Instead of which he stood panting and then spokewith sudden familiarity, hastily, guiltily: "Look here. I don't knowwhat the juice is up, but I think there's something wrong. Excuse myintruding--if it isn't so. I'll do anything you like to help you out ofthe scrape--if you're in one. That's my meaning, I believe. What can Ido? I would do anything to help you. "

Her brow puckered, as she watched him make, with infinite emotion, this remarkable speech. "YOU!" she said. She was tumultuously weighingpossibilities in her mind, and he had scarcely ceased when she had madeher resolve. 

She stepped a pace forward. "You are a gentleman, " she said. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"Can I trust you?"

She did not wait for his assurance. "I must leave this hotel at once. Come here. "

She took his arm and led him to the window. 

"You can just see the gate. It is still open. Through that are ourbicycles. Go down, get them out, and I will come down to you. Dare you?

"Get your bicycle out in the road?"

"Both. Mine alone is no good. At once. Dare you?"

"Which way?"

"Go out by the front door and round. I will follow in one minute. "

"Right!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, and went. 

He had to get those bicycles. Had he been told to go out and killBechamel he would have done it. His head was a maelstrom now. He walkedout of the hotel, along the front, and into the big, black-shadowedcoach yard. He looked round. There were no bicycles visible. Then aman emerged from the dark, a short man in a short, black, shiny jacket. Hoopdriver was caught. He made no attempt to turn and run for it. "I'vebeen giving your machines a wipe over, sir, " said the man, recognisingthe suit, and touching his cap. Hoopdriver's intelligence now was asoaring eagle; he swooped on the situation at once. "That's right, " hesaid, and added, before the pause became marked, "Where is mine? I wantto look at the chain. "

The man led him into an open shed, and went fumbling for a lantern. Hoopdriver moved the lady's machine out of his way to the door, and thenlaid hands on the man's machine and wheeled it out of the shed into theyard. The gate stood open and beyond was the pale road and a clump oftrees black in the twilight. He stooped and examined the chain withtrembling fingers. How was it to be done? Something behind the gateseemed to flutter. The man must be got rid of anyhow. 

"I say, " said Hoopdriver, with an inspiration, "can you get me ascrewdriver?"

The man simply walked across the shed, opened and shut a box, and cameup to the kneeling Hoopdriver with a screwdriver in his hand. Hoopdriverfelt himself a lost man. He took the screwdriver with a tepid "Thanks, "and incontinently had another inspiration. 

"I say, " he said again. 

"Well?"

"This is miles too big. "

The man lit the lantern, brought it up to Hoopdriver and put it down onthe ground. "Want a smaller screwdriver?" he said. 

Hoopdriver had his handkerchief out and sneezed a prompt ATICHEW. It isthe orthodox thing when you wish to avoid recognition. "As small as youhave, " he said, out of his pocket handkerchief. 

"I ain't got none smaller than that, " said the ostler. 

"Won't do, really, " said Hoopdriver, still wallowing in hishandkerchief. 

"I'll see wot they got in the 'ouse, if you like, sir, " said the man. "If you would, " said Hoopdriver. And as the man's heavily nailed bootswent clattering down the yard, Hoopdriver stood up, took a noiselessstep to the lady's machine, laid trembling hands on its handle andsaddle, and prepared for a rush. 

The scullery door opened momentarily and sent a beam of warm, yellowlight up the road, shut again behind the man, and forthwith Hoopdriverrushed the machines towards the gate. A dark grey form came flutteringto meet him. "Give me this, " she said, "and bring yours. "

He passed the thing to her, touched her hand in the darkness, ran back, seized Bechamel's machine, and followed. 

The yellow light of the scullery door suddenly flashed upon the cobblesagain. It was too late now to do anything but escape. He heard theostler shout behind him, and came into the road. She was up and dimalready. He got into the saddle without a blunder. In a moment theostler was in the gateway with a full-throated "HI! sir! That ain'tallowed;" and Hoopdriver was overtaking the Young Lady in Grey. Forsome moments the earth seemed alive with shouts of, "Stop 'em!" and theshadows with ambuscades of police. The road swept round, and they wereriding out of sight of the hotel, and behind dark hedges, side by side. 

She was weeping with excitement as he overtook her. "Brave, " she said, "brave!" and he ceased to feel like a hunted thief. He looked overhis shoulder and about him, and saw that they were already out ofBognor--for the Vicuna stands at the very westernmost extremity of thesea front--and riding on a fair wide road. 

XXIII. 

The ostler (being a fool) rushed violently down the road vociferatingafter them. Then he returned panting to the Vicuna Hotel, and findinga group of men outside the entrance, who wanted to know what was UP, stopped to give them the cream of the adventure. That gave the fugitivesfive minutes. Then pushing breathlessly into the bar, he had to make itclear to the barmaid what the matter was, and the 'gov'nor' being out, they spent some more precious time wondering 'what--EVER' was to bedone! in which the two customers returning from outside joinedwith animation. There were also moral remarks and other irrelevantcontributions. There were conflicting ideas of telling the police andpursuing the flying couple on a horse. That made ten minutes. ThenStephen, the waiter, who had shown Hoopdriver up, came down and litwonderful lights and started quite a fresh discussion by the simplequestion "WHICH?" That turned ten minutes into a quarter of an hour. And in the midst of this discussion, making a sudden and awestrickensilence, appeared Bechamel in the hall beyond the bar, walked with aresolute air to the foot of the staircase, and passed out of sight. You conceive the backward pitch of that exceptionally shaped cranium?Incredulous eyes stared into one another's in the bar, as his paces, muffled by the stair carpet, went up to the landing, turned, reached thepassage and walked into the dining-room overhead. 

"It wasn't that one at all, miss, " said the ostler, "I'd SWEAR"

"Well, that's Mr. Beaumont, " said the barmaid, "--anyhow. "

Their conversation hung comatose in the air, switched up by Bechamel. They listened together. His feet stopped. Turned. Went out of thediningroom. Down the passage to the bedroom. Stopped again. 

"Poor chap!" said the barmaid. "She's a wicked woman!"

"Sssh!" said Stephen. 

After a pause Bechamel went back to the dining-room. They heard a chaircreak under him. Interlude of conversational eyebrows. 

"I'm going up, " said Stephen, "to break the melancholy news to him. "

Bechamel looked up from a week-old newspaper as, without knocking, Stephen entered. Bechamel's face suggested a different expectation. "Begpardon, sir, " said Stephen, with a diplomatic cough. 

"Well?" said Bechamel, wondering suddenly if Jessie had kept some of herthreats. If so, he was in for an explanation. But he had it ready. Shewas a monomaniac. "Leave me alone with her, " he would say; "I know howto calm her. "

"Mrs. Beaumont, " said Stephen. 

"WELL?"

"Has gone. "

He rose with a fine surprise. "Gone!" he said with a half laugh. 

"Gone, sir. On her bicycle. "

"On her bicycle! Why?"

"She went, sir, with Another Gentleman. "

This time Bechamel was really startled. "An--other Gentlemen! WHO?"

"Another gentleman in brown, sir. Went into the yard, sir, got out thetwo bicycles, sir, and went off, sir--about twenty minutes ago. "

Bechamel stood with his eyes round and his knuckle on his hips. Stephen, watching him with immense enjoyment, speculated whether this abandonedhusband would weep or curse, or rush off at once in furious pursuit. Butas yet he seemed merely stunned. 

"Brown clothes?" he said. "And fairish?"

"A little like yourself, sir--in the dark. The ostler, sir, Jim Duke--"

Bechamel laughed awry. Then, with infinite fervour, he said--But let usput in blank cartridge--he said, "------!"

"I might have thought!"

He flung himself into the armchair. 

"Damn her, " said Bechamel, for all the world like a common man. "I'llchuck this infernal business! They've gone, eigh?"

"Yessir. "

"Well, let 'em GO, " said Bechamel, making a memorable saying. "Let 'emGO. Who cares? And I wish him luck. And bring me some Bourbon as fast asyou can, there's a good chap. I'll take that, and then I'll have anotherlook round Bognor before I turn in. "

Stephen was too surprised to say anything but "Bourbon, sir?"

"Go on, " said Bechamel. "Damn you!"

Stephen's sympathies changed at once. "Yessir, " he murmured, fumblingfor the door handle, and left the room, marvelling. Bechamel, having inthis way satisfied his sense of appearances, and comported himself as aPagan should, so soon as the waiter's footsteps had passed, vented thecream of his feelings in a stream of blasphemous indecency. Whether hiswife or HER stepmother had sent the detective, SHE had evidently goneoff with him, and that little business was over. And he was here, stranded and sold, an ass, and as it were, the son of many generationsof asses. And his only ray of hope was that it seemed more probable, after all, that the girl had escaped through her stepmother. Inwhich case the business might be hushed up yet, and the evil hour ofexplanation with his wife indefinitely postponed. Then abruptly theimage of that lithe figure in grey knickerbockers went frisking acrosshis mind again, and he reverted to his blasphemies. He started up in agusty frenzy with a vague idea of pursuit, and incontinently sat downagain with a concussion that stirred the bar below to its depths. Hebanged the arms of the chair with his fist, and swore again. "Of all theaccursed fools that were ever spawned, " he was chanting, "I, Bechamel--"when with an abrupt tap and prompt opening of the door, Stephen enteredwith the Bourbon. 

XXIV. THE MOONLIGHT RIDE

And so the twenty minutes' law passed into an infinity. We leave thewicked Bechamel clothing himself with cursing as with a garment, --thewretched creature has already sufficiently sullied our modest buttruthful pages, --we leave the eager little group in the bar of theVicuna Hotel, we leave all Bognor as we have left all Chichester andMidhurst and Haslemere and Guildford and Ripley and Putney, and followthis dear fool of a Hoopdriver of ours and his Young Lady in Grey outupon the moonlight road. How they rode! How their hearts beat togetherand their breath came fast, and how every shadow was anticipation andevery noise pursuit! For all that flight Mr. Hoopdriver was in the worldof Romance. Had a policeman intervened because their lamps were not lit, Hoopdriver had cut him down and ridden on, after the fashion of a heroborn. Had Bechamel arisen in the way with rapiers for a duel, Hoopdriverhad fought as one to whom Agincourt was a reality and drapery a dream. It was Rescue, Elopement, Glory! And she by the side of him! He had seenher face in shadow, with the morning sunlight tangled in her hair, hehad seen her sympathetic with that warm light in her face, he had seenher troubled and her eyes bright with tears. But what light is therelighting a face like hers, to compare with the soft glamour of themidsummer moon?

The road turned northward, going round through the outskirts of Bognor, in one place dark and heavy under a thick growth of trees, then amidstvillas again, some warm and lamplit, some white and sleeping in themoonlight; then between hedges, over which they saw broad wan meadowsshrouded in a low-lying mist. They scarcely heeded whither they rode atfirst, being only anxious to get away, turning once westward when thespire of Chichester cathedral rose suddenly near them out of the dewynight, pale and intricate and high. They rode, speaking little, just arare word now and then, at a turning, at a footfall, at a roughness inthe road. 

She seemed to be too intent upon escape to give much thought to him, but after the first tumult of the adventure, as flight passed into meresteady ridin@@ his mind became an enormous appreciation of the position. The night was a warm white silence save for the subtile running of theirchains. He looked sideways at her as she sat beside him with her anklesgracefully ruling the treadles. Now the road turned westward, and shewas a dark grey outline against the shimmer of the moon; and now theyfaced northwards, and the soft cold light passed caressingly over herhair and touched her brow and cheek. 

There is a magic quality in moonshine; it touches all that is sweetand beautiful, and the rest of the night is hidden. It has createdthe fairies, whom the sunlight kills, and fairyland rises again in ourhearts at the sight of it, the voices of the filmy route, and theirfaint, soul-piercing melodies. By the moonlight every man, dull clodthough he be by day, tastes something of Endymion, takes something ofthe youth and strength of Enidymion, and sees the dear white goddessshining at him from his Lady's eyes. The firm substantial daylightthings become ghostly and elusive, the hills beyond are a sea ofunsubstantial texture, the world a visible spirit, the spiritual withinus rises out of its darkness, loses something of its weight and body, and swims up towards heaven. This road that was a mere rutted whitedust, hot underfoot, blinding to the eye, is now a soft grey silence, with the glitter of a crystal grain set starlike in its silver hereand there. Overhead, riding serenely through the spacious blue, is themother of the silence, she who has spiritualised the world, alone savefor two attendant steady shining stars. And in silence under her benigninfluence, under the benediction of her light, rode our two wanderersside by side through the transfigured and transfiguring night. 

Nowhere was the moon shining quite so brightly as in Mr. Hoopdriver'sskull. At the turnings of the road he made his decisions with an air ofprofound promptitude (and quite haphazard). "The Right, " he would say. Or again "The Left, " as one who knew. So it was that in the space of anhour they came abruptly down a little lane, full tilt upon the sea. Greybeach to the right of them and to the left, and a little white cottagefast asleep inland of a sleeping fishing-boat. "Hullo!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, sotto voce. They dismounted abruptly. Stunted oaks andthorns rose out of the haze of moonlight that was tangled in the hedgeon either side. 

"You are safe, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, sweeping off his cap with an airand bowing courtly. 

"Where are we?"

"SAFE. "

"But WHERE?"

"Chichester Harbour. " He waved his arm seaward as though it was a goal. 

"Do you think they will follow us?"

"We have turned and turned again. "

It seemed to Hoopdriver that he heard her sob. She stood dimly there, holding her machine, and he, holding his, could go no nearer to her tosee if she sobbed for weeping or for want of breath. "What are we to donow?" her voice asked. 

"Are you tired?" he asked. 

"I will do what has to be done. "

The two black figures in the broken light were silent for a space. "Doyou know, " she said, "I am not afraid of you. I am sure you are honestto me. And I do not even know your name!"

He was taken with a sudden shame of his homely patronymic. "It's an uglyname, " he said. "But you are right in trusting me. I would--I would doanything for you.... This is nothing. "

She caught at her breath. She did not care to ask why. But comparedwith Bechamel!--"We take each other on trust, " she said. "Do you want toknow--how things are with me?"

"That man, " she went on, after the assent of his listening silence, "promised to help and protect me. I was unhappy at home--never mindwhy. A stepmother--Idle, unoccupied, hindered, cramped, that isenough, perhaps. Then he came into my life, and talked to me of artand literature, and set my brain on fire. I wanted to come out into theworld, to be a human being--not a thing in a hutch. And he--"

"I know, " said Hoopdriver. 

"And now here I am--"

"I will do anything, " said Hoopdriver. 

She thought. "You cannot imagine my stepmother. No! I could not describeher--"

"I am entirely at your service. I will help you with all my power. "

"I have lost an Illusion and found a Knight-errant. " She spoke ofBechamel as the Illusion. 

Mr. Hoopdriver felt flattered. But he had no adequate answer. 

"I'm thinking, " he said, full of a rapture of protective responsibility, "what we had best be doing. You are tired, you know. And we can'twander all night--after the day we've had. "

"That was Chichester we were near?" she asked. 

"If, " he meditated, with a tremble in his voice, "you would make ME yourbrother, MISS BEAUMONT. "

"Yes?"

"We could stop there together--"

She took a minute to answer. "I am going to light these lamps, " saidHoopdriver. He bent down to his own, and struck a match on his shoe. Shelooked at his face in its light, grave and intent. How could she everhave thought him common or absurd?

"But you must tell me your name--brother, " she said, "Er--Carrington, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, after a momentary pause. Whowould be Hoopdriver on a night like this?

"But the Christian name?"

"Christian name? MY Christian name. Well--Chris. " He snapped his lampand stood up. "If you will hold my machine, I will light yours, " hesaid. 

She came round obediently and took his machine, and for a moment theystood face to face. "My name, brother Chris, " she said, "is Jessie. "

He looked into her eyes, and his excitement seemed arrested. "JESSIE, "he repeated slowly. The mute emotion of his face affected her strangely. She had to speak. "It's not such a very wonderful name, is it?" shesaid, with a laugh to break the intensity. 

He opened his mouth and shut it again, and, with a sudden wincing of hisfeatures, abruptly turned and bent down to open the lantern in front ofher machine. She looked down at him, almost kneeling in front ofher, with an unreasonable approbation in her eyes. It was, as I haveindicated, the hour and season of the full moon. 

XXV. 

Mr. Hoopdriver conducted the rest of that night's journey with the sameconfident dignity as before, and it was chiefly by good luck and thefact that most roads about a town converge thereupon, that Chichesterwas at last attained. It seemed at first as though everyone had gone tobed, but the Red Hotel still glowed yellow and warm. It was the firsttime Hoopdriver bad dared the mysteries of a 'first-class' hotel. ' Butthat night he was in the mood to dare anything. 

"So you found your Young Lady at last, " said the ostler of the RedHotel; for it chanced he was one of those of whom Hoopdriver had madeinquiries in the afternoon. 

"Quite a misunderstanding, " said Hoopdriver, with splendid readiness. "My sister had gone to Bognor But I brought her back here. I've took afancy to this place. And the moonlight's simply dee-vine. "

"We've had supper, thenks, and we're tired, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "Isuppose you won't take anything, --Jessie?"

The glory of having her, even as a sister! and to call her Jessie likethat! But he carried it off splendidly, as he felt himself bound toadmit. "Good-night, Sis, " he said, "and pleasant dreams. I'll just 'avea look at this paper before I turn in. " But this was living indeed! hetold himself. 

So gallantly did Mr. Hoopdriver comport himself up to the very edge ofthe Most Wonderful Day of all. It had begun early, you will remember, with a vigil in a little sweetstuff shop next door to the Angel atMidhurst. But to think of all the things that had happened since then!He caught himself in the middle of a yawn, pulled out his watch, saw thetime was halfpast eleven, and marched off, with a fine sense of heroism, bedward. 

XXVI. THE SURBITON INTERLUDE

And here, thanks to the glorious institution of sleep, comes a break inthe narrative again. These absurd young people are safely tucked awaynow, their heads full of glowing nonsense, indeed, but the course ofevents at any rate is safe from any fresh developments through theiractivities for the next eight hours or more. They are both sleepinghealthily you will perhaps be astonished to hear. Here is the girl--whatgirls are coming to nowadays only Mrs. Lynn Linton can tell!--in companywith an absolute stranger, of low extraction and uncertain accent, unchaperoned and unabashed; indeed, now she fancies she is safe, she is, if anything, a little proud of her own share in these transactions. Thenthis Mr. Hoopdriver of yours, roseate idiot that he is! is in illegalpossession of a stolen bicycle, a stolen young lady, and two stolennames, established with them in an hotel that is quite beyond his means, and immensely proud of himself in a somnolent way for these incomparablefollies. There are occasions when a moralising novelist can merely wringhis hands and leave matters to take their course. For all Hoopdriverknows or cares he may be locked up the very first thing to-morrowmorning for the rape of the cycle. Then in Bognor, let alone thatmelancholy vestige, Bechamel (with whom our dealings are, thankGoodness! over), there is a Coffee Tavern with a steak Mr. Hoopdriverordered, done to a cinder long ago, his American-cloth parcel in abedroom, and his own proper bicycle, by way of guarantee, carefullylocked up in the hayloft. To-morrow he will be a Mystery, and they willbe looking for his body along the sea front. And so far we have nevergiven a glance at the desolate home in Surbiton, familiar to you nodoubt through the medium of illustrated interviews, where the unhappystepmother--

That stepmother, it must be explained, is quite well known to you. That is a little surprise I have prepared for you. She is 'ThomasPlantagenet, ' the gifted authoress of that witty and daring book, "ASoul Untrammelled, " and quite an excellent woman in her way, --only itis such a crooked way. Her real name is Milton. She is a widow anda charming one, only ten years older than Jessie, and she is alwayscareful to dedicate her more daring works to the 'sacred memory of myhusband' to show that there's nothing personal, you know, in the matter. Considering her literary reputation (she was always speaking of herselfas one I martyred for truth, ' because the critics advertised herwritten indecorums in column long 'slates'), --considering her literaryreputation, I say, she was one of the most respectable women it ispossible to imagine. She furnished correctly, dressed correctly, hadsevere notions of whom she might meet, went to church, and even at timestook the sacrament in some esoteric spirit. And Jessie she brought up socarefully that she never even let her read "A Soul Untrammelled. " Which, therefore, naturally enough, Jessie did, and went on from that to afeast of advanced literature. Mrs. Milton not only brought up Jessiecarefully, but very slowly, so that at seventeen she was still a cleverschoolgirl (as you have seen her) and quite in the background ofthe little literary circle of unimportant celebrities which 'ThomasPlantagenet' adorned. Mrs. Milton knew Bechamel's reputation of being adangerous man; but then bad men are not bad women, and she let him cometo her house to show she was not afraid--she took no account of Jessie. When the elopement came, therefore, it was a double disappointmentto her, for she perceived his hand by a kind of instinct. She did thecorrect thing. The correct thing, as you know, is to take hansom cabs, regardless of expense, and weep and say you do not know WHAT to do, round the circle of your confidential friends. She could not have riddennor wept more had Jessie been her own daughter--she showed the properestspirit. And she not only showed it, but felt it. 

Mrs. Milton, as a successful little authoress and still more successfulwidow of thirty-two, --"Thomas Plantagenet is a charming woman, "her reviewers used to write invariably, even if they spoke ill ofher, --found the steady growth of Jessie into womanhood an unmitigatednuisance and had been willing enough to keep her in the background. And Jessie--who had started this intercourse at fourteen with abstractobjections to stepmothers--had been active enough in resenting this. Increasing rivalry and antagonism had sprung up between them, untilthey could engender quite a vivid hatred from a dropped hairpin orthe cutting of a book with a sharpened knife. There is very littledeliberate wickedness in the world. The stupidity of our selfishnessgives much the same results indeed, but in the ethical laboratory itshows a different nature. And when the disaster came, Mrs. Milton'sremorse for their gradual loss of sympathy and her share in the losingof it, was genuine enough. 

You may imagine the comfort she got from her friends, and how WestKensington and Notting Hill and Hampstead, the literary suburbs, thosedecent penitentiaries of a once Bohemian calling, hummed with thebusiness, Her 'Men'--as a charming literary lady she had, of course, anorganised corps--were immensely excited, and were sympathetic;helpfully energetic, suggestive, alert, as their ideals of their variousdispositions required them to be. "Any news of Jessie?" was the patheticopening of a dozen melancholy but interesting conversations. To her Menshe was not perhaps so damp as she was to her women friends, but in aquiet way she was even more touching. For three days, Wednesday that is, Thursday, and Friday, nothing was heard of the fugitives. It was knownthat Jessie, wearing a patent costume with buttonup skirts, and mountedon a diamond frame safety with Dunlops, and a loofah covered saddle, had ridden forth early in the morning, taking with her about two poundsseven shillings in money, and a grey touring case packed, and there, save for a brief note to her stepmother, --a declaration of independence, it was said, an assertion of her Ego containing extensive and veryannoying quotations from "A Soul Untrammelled, " and giving no definiteintimation of her plans--knowledge ceased. That note was shown to few, and then only in the strictest confidence. 

But on Friday evening late came a breathless Man Friend, Widgery, acorrespondent of hers, who had heard of her trouble among the first. Hehad been touring in Sussex, --his knapsack was still on his back, --andhe testified hurriedly that at a place called Midhurst, in the bar of anhotel called the Angel, he had heard from a barmaid a vivid account ofa Young Lady in Grey. Descriptions tallied. But who was the man inbrown? "The poor, misguided girl! I must go to her at once, " she said, choking, and rising with her hand to her heart. 

"It's impossible to-night. There are no more trains. I looked on myway. "

"A mother's love, " she said. "I bear her THAT. "

"I know you do. " He spoke with feeling, for no one admired hisphotographs of scenery more than Mrs. Milton. "It's more than shedeserves. "

"Oh, don't speak unkindly of her! She has been misled. "

It was really very friendly of him. He declared he was only sorry hisnews ended there. Should he follow them, and bring her back? He had cometo her because he knew of her anxiety. "It is GOOD of you, " she said, and quite instinctively took and pressed his hand. "And to think of thatpoor girl--tonight! It's dreadful. " She looked into the fire that shehad lit when he came in, the warm light fell upon her dark purple dress, and left her features in a warm shadow. She looked such a slight, frailthing to be troubled so. "We must follow her. " Her resolution seemedmagnificent. "I have no one to go with me. "

"He must marry her, " said the man. 

"She has no friends. We have no one. After all--Two women. --Sohelpless. "

And this fair-haired little figure was the woman that people who knewher only from her books, called bold, prurient even! Simply becauseshe was great-hearted--intellectual. He was overcome by the unspeakablepathos of her position. 

"Mrs. Milton, " he said. "Hetty!"

She glanced at him. The overflow was imminent. "Not now, " she said, "notnow. I must find her first. "

"Yes, " he said with intense emotion. (He was one of those big, fat menwho feel deeply. ) "But let me help you. At least let me help you. "

"But can you spare time?" she said. "For ME. "

"For you--"

"But what can I do? what can WE do?"

"Go to Midhurst. Follow her on. Trace her. She was there on Thursdaynight, last night. She cycled out of the town. Courage!" he said. "Wewill save her yet!"

She put out her hand and pressed his again. 

"Courage!" he repeated, finding it so well received. 

There were alarms and excursions without. She turned her back to thefire, and he sat down suddenly in the big armchair, which suited hisdimensions admirably. Then the door opened, and the girl showed inDangle, who looked curiously from one to the other. There was emotionhere, he had heard the armchair creaking, and Mrs. Milton, whose facewas flushed, displayed a suspicious alacrity to explain. "You, too, " shesaid, "are one of my good friends. And we have news of her at last. "

It was decidedly an advantage to Widgery, but Dangle determined to showhimself a man of resource. In the end he, too, was accepted for theMidhurst Expedition, to the intense disgust of Widgery; and youngPhipps, a callow youth of few words, faultless collars, and ferventdevotion, was also enrolled before the evening was out. They would scourthe country, all three of them. She appeared to brighten up a little, but it was evident she was profoundly touched. She did not know whatshe had done to merit such friends. Her voice broke a little, she movedtowards the door, and young Phipps, who was a youth of action ratherthan of words, sprang and opened it--proud to be first. 

"She is sorely troubled, " said Dangle to Widgery. "We must do what wecan for her. "

"She is a wonderful woman, " said Dangle. "So subtle, so intricate, somany faceted. She feels this deeply. "

Young Phipps said nothing, but he felt the more. 

And yet they say the age of chivalry is dead!

But this is only an Interlude, introduced to give our wanderers time torefresh themselves by good, honest sleeping. For the present, therefore, we will not concern ourselves with the starting of the Rescue Party, nor with Mrs. Milton's simple but becoming grey dress, with the healthyWidgery's Norfolk jacket and thick boots, with the slender Dangle'senergetic bearing, nor with the wonderful chequerings that set off thelegs of the golf-suited Phipps. They are after us. In a little whilethey will be upon us. You must imagine as you best can the competitiveraidings at Midhurst of Widgery, Dangle, and Phipps. How Widgerywas great at questions, and Dangle good at inference, and Phipps soconspicuously inferior in everything that he felt it, and sulked withMrs. Milton most of the day, after the manner of your callow youth thewhole world over. Mrs. Milton stopped at the Angel and was very sad andcharming and intelligent, and Widgery paid the bill in the afternoonof Saturday, Chichester was attained. But by that time our fugitives--Asyou shall immediately hear. 

XXVII. THE AWAKENING OF MR. HOOPDRIVER

Mr. Hoopdriver stirred on his pillow, opened his eyes, and, staringunmeaningly, yawned. The bedclothes were soft and pleasant. He turnedthe peaked nose that overrides the insufficient moustache, up to theceiling, a pinkish projection over the billow of white. You might see itwrinkle as he yawned again, and then became quiet. So matters remainedfor a space. Very slowly recollection returned to him. Then a shockof indeterminate brown hair appeared, and first one watery grey eyea-wondering, and then two; the bed upheaved, and you had him, his thinneck projecting abruptly from the clothes he held about him, his facestaring about the room. He held the clothes about him, I hope I mayexplain, because his night-shirt was at Bognor in an American-clothpacket, derelict. He yawned a third time, rubbed his eyes, smacked hislips. He was recalling almost everything now. The pursuit, the hotel, the tremulous daring of his entry, the swift adventure of the innyard, the moonlight--Abruptly he threw the clothes back and rose intoa sitting position on the edge of the bed. Without was the noise ofshutters being unfastened and doors unlocked, and the passing of hoofsand wheels in the street. He looked at his watch. Half-past six. Hesurveyed the sumptuous room again. 

"Lord!" said Mr. Hoopdriver. "It wasn't a dream, after all. "

"I wonder what they charge for these Juiced rooms!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, nursing one rosy foot. 

He became meditative, tugging at his insufficient moustache. Suddenly hegave vent to a noiseless laugh. "What a rush it was! Rushed in and offwith his girl right under his nose. Planned it well too. Talk of highwayrobbery! Talk of brigands Up and off! How juiced SOLD he must be feelingIt was a shave too--in the coach yard!"

Suddenly he became silent. Abruptly his eyebrows rose and his jaw fell. "I sa-a-ay!" said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

He had never thought of it before. Perhaps you will understand the whirlhe had been in overnight. But one sees things clearer in the daylight. "I'm hanged if I haven't been and stolen a blessed bicycle. "

"Who cares?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, presently, and his face supplied theanswer. 

Then he thought of the Young Lady in Grey again, and tried to put a moreheroic complexion on the business. But of an early morning, on an emptystomach (as with characteristic coarseness, medical men put it) heroicsare of a more difficult growth than by moonlight. Everything had seemedexceptionally fine and brilliant, but quite natural, the evening before. 

Mr. Hoopdriver reached out his hand, took his Norfolk jacket, laid itover his knees, and took out the money from the little ticket pocket. "Fourteen and six-half, " he said, holding the coins in his left hand andstroking his chin with his right. He verified, by patting, the presenceof a pocketbook in the breast pocket. "Five, fourteen, six-half, " saidMr. Hoopdriver. "Left. "

With the Norfolk jacket still on his knees, he plunged into anothersilent meditation. "That wouldn't matter, " he said. "It's the bike's thebother. 

"No good going back to Bognor. 

"Might send it back by carrier, of course. Thanking him for the loan. Having no further use--" Mr. Hoopdriver chuckled and lapsed into thesilent concoction of a delightfully impudent letter. "Mr. J. Hoopdriverpresents his compliments. " But the grave note reasserted itself. 

"Might trundle back there in an hour, of course, and exchange them. MYold crock's so blessed shabby. He's sure to be spiteful too. Have merun in, perhaps. Then she'd be in just the same old fix, only worse. Yousee, I'm her Knight-errant. It complicates things so. "

His eye, wandering loosely, rested on the sponge bath. "What the juicedo they want with cream pans in a bedroom?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, enpassant. 

"Best thing we can do is to set out of here as soon as possible, anyhow. I suppose she'll go home to her friends. That bicycle is a juicynuisance, anyhow. Juicy nuisance!"

He jumped to his feet with a sudden awakening of energy, to proceed withhis toilet. Then with a certain horror he remembered that the simplenecessaries of that process were at Bognor! "Lord!" he remarked, andwhistled silently for a space. "Rummy go! profit and loss; profit, onesister with bicycle complete, wot offers?--cheap for tooth and 'airbrush, vests, night-shirt, stockings, and sundries. 

"Make the best of it, " and presently, when it came to hair-brushing, hehad to smooth his troubled locks with his hands. It was a poor result. "Sneak out and get a shave, I suppose, and buy a brush and so on. Chinkagain! Beard don't show much. "

He ran his hand over his chin, looked at himself steadfastly for sometime, and curled his insufficient moustache up with some care. Then hefell a-meditating on his beauty. He considered himself, three-quarterface, left and right. An expression of distaste crept over his features. "Looking won't alter it, Hoopdriver, " he remarked. "You're a weedycustomer, my man. Shoulders narrow. Skimpy, anyhow. "

He put his knuckles on the toilet table and regarded himself with hischin lifted in the air. "Good Lord!" he said. "WHAT a neck! Wonder why Igot such a thundering lump there. "

He sat down on the bed, his eye still on the glass. "If I'd beenexercised properly, if I'd been fed reasonable, if I hadn't been shovedout of a silly school into a silly shop--But there! the old folks didn'tknow no better. The schoolmaster ought to have. But he didn't, poor oldfool!--Still, when it comes to meeting a girl like this--It's 'ARD. 

"I wonder what Adam'd think of me--as a specimen. Civilisation, eigh? Heir of the ages! I'm nothing. I know nothing. I can't doanything--sketch a bit. Why wasn't I made an artist?

"Beastly cheap, after all, this suit does look, in the sunshine. "

"No good, Hoopdriver. Anyhow, you don't tell yourself any lies about it. Lovers ain't your game, --anyway. But there's other things yet. You canhelp the young lady, and you will--I suppose she'll be going home--Andthat business of the bicycle's to see to, too, my man. FORWARD, Hoopdriver! If you ain't a beauty, that's no reason why you should stopand be copped, is it?"

And having got back in this way to a gloomy kind of self-satisfaction, he had another attempt at his hair preparatory to leaving his roomand hurrying on breakfast, for an early departure. While breakfast waspreparing he wandered out into South Street and refurnished himself withthe elements of luggage again. "No expense to be spared, " he murmured, disgorging the half-sovereign. 

XXVIII. THE DEPARTURE FROM CHICHESTER

He caused his 'sister' to be called repeatedly, and when she came down, explained with a humorous smile his legal relationship to the bicyclein the yard. "Might be disagreeable, y' know. " His anxiety was obviousenough. "Very well, " she said (quite friendly); "hurry breakfast, andwe'll ride out. I want to talk things over with you. " The girl seemedmore beautiful than ever after the night's sleep; her hair in comelydark waves from her forehead, her ungauntleted finger-tips pink andcool. And how decided she was! Breakfast was a nervous ceremony, conversation fraternal but thin; the waiter overawed him, and he wascowed by a multiplicity of forks. But she called him "Chris. " Theydiscussed their route over his sixpenny county map for the sake oftalking, but avoided a decision in the presence of the attendant. Thefive-pound note was changed for the bill, and through Hoopdriver'sdetermination to be quite the gentleman, the waiter and chambermaid gothalf a crown each and the ostler a florin. "'Olidays, " said the ostlerto himself, without gratitude. The public mounting of the bicycles inthe street was a moment of trepidation. A policeman actually stopped andwatched them from the opposite kerb. Suppose him to come across and ask:"Is that your bicycle, sir?" Fight? Or drop it and run? It was a time ofbewildering apprehension, too, going through the streets of the town, so that a milk cart barely escaped destruction under Mr. Hoopdriver'schancy wheel. That recalled him to a sense of erratic steering, andhe pulled himself together. In the lanes he breathed freer, and a lessformal conversation presently began. 

"You've ridden out of Chichester in a great hurry, " said Jessie. 

"Well, the fact of it is, I'm worried, just a little bit. About thismachine. "

"Of course, " she said. "I had forgotten that. But where are we going?"

"Jest a turning or two more, if you don't mind, " said Hoopdriver. 

"Jest a mile or so. I have to think of you, you know. I should feel moreeasy. If we was locked up, you know--Not that I should mind on my ownaccount--"

They rode with a streaky, grey sea coming and going on their left hand. Every mile they put between themselves and Chichester Mr. Hoopdriverfelt a little less conscience-stricken, and a little more of the gallantdesperado. Here he was riding on a splendid machine with a Slap-up girlbeside him. What would they think of it in the Emporium if any of themwere to see him? He imagined in detail the astonishment of Miss Isaacsand of Miss Howe. "Why! It's Mr. Hoopdriver, " Miss Isaacs would say. "Never!" emphatically from Miss Howe. Then he played with Briggs, andthen tried the 'G. V. ' in a shay. "Fancy introducing 'em to her--Mysister pro tem. " He was her brother Chris--Chris what?--Confound it!Harringon, Hartington--something like that. Have to keep off that topicuntil he could remember. Wish he'd told her the truth now--almost. Heglanced at her. She was riding with her eyes straight ahead of her. Thinking. A little perplexed, perhaps, she seemed. He noticed how wellshe rode and that she rode with her lips closed--a thing he could nevermanage. 

Mr. Hoopdriver's mind came round to the future. What was she going todo? What were they both going to do? His thoughts took a graver colour. He had rescued her. This was fine, manly rescue work he was engagedupon. She ought to go home, in spite of that stepmother. He must insistgravely but firmly upon that. She was the spirited sort, of course, butstill--Wonder if she had any money? Wonder what the second-class farefrom Havant to London is? Of course he would have to pay that--it wasthe regular thing, he being a gentleman. Then should he take her home?He began to rough in a moving sketch of the return. The stepmother, repentant of her indescribable cruelties, would be present, --even theserich people have their troubles, --probably an uncle or two. The footmanwould announce, Mr. --(bother that name!) and Miss Milton. Then two womenweeping together, and a knightly figure in the background dressed in ahandsome Norfolk jacket, still conspicuously new. He would conceal hisfeeling until the very end. Then, leaving, he would pause in the doorwayin such an attitude as Mr. George Alexander might assume, and say, slowly and dwindlingly: "Be kind to her--BE kind to her, " and so depart, heartbroken to the meanest intelligence. But that was a matter for thefuture. He would have to begin discussing the return soon. There was notraffic along the road, and he came up beside her (he had fallen behindin his musing). She began to talk. "Mr. Denison, " she began, and then, doubtfully, "That is your name? I'm very stupid--"

"It is, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. (Denison, was it? Denison, Denison, Denison. What was she saying?)

"I wonder how far you are willing to help me?" Confoundedly hard toanswer a question like that on the spur of the moment, without steeringwildly. "You may rely--" said Mr. Hoopdriver, recovering from a violentwabble. "I can assure you--I want to help you very much. Don't considerme at all. Leastways, consider me entirely at your service. " (Nuisancenot to be able to say this kind of thing right. )

"You see, I am so awkwardly situated. "

"If I can only help you--you will make me very happy--" There was apause. Round a bend in the road they came upon a grassy space betweenhedge and road, set with yarrow and meadowsweet, where a felled tree layamong the green. There she dismounted, and propping her machine againsta stone, sat down. "Here, we can talk, " she said. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, expectant. 

She answered after a little while, sitting, elbow on knee, with her chinin her hand, and looking straight in front of her. "I don't know--I amresolved to Live my Own Life. "

"Of course, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "Naturally. "

"I want to Live, and I want to see what life means. I want to learn. Everyone is hurrying me, everything is hurrying me; I want time tothink. "

Mr. Hoopdriver was puzzled, but admiring. It was wonderful how clear andready her words were. But then one might speak well with a throat andlips like that. He knew he was inadequate, but he tried to meet theoccasion. "If you let them rush you into anything you might repent of, of course you'd be very silly. "

"Don't YOU want to learn?" she asked. 

"I was wondering only this morning, " he began, and stopped. 

She was too intent upon her own thoughts to notice this insufficiency. "I find myself in life, and it terrifies me. I seem to be like a littlespeck, whirling on a wheel, suddenly caught up. 'What am I here for?'I ask. Simply to be here at a time--I asked it a week ago, I asked ityesterday, and I ask it to-day. And little things happen and the dayspass. My stepmother takes me shopping, people come to tea, there is anew play to pass the time, or a concert, or a novel. The wheels of theworld go on turning, turning. It is horrible. I want to do a miraclelike Joshua and stop the whirl until I have fought it out. At home--It'simpossible. "

Mr. Hoopdriver stroked his moustache. "It IS so, " he said in ameditative tone. "Things WILL go on, " he said. The faint breath ofsummer stirred the trees, and a bunch of dandelion puff lifted among themeadowsweet and struck and broke into a dozen separate threads againsthis knee. They flew on apart, and sank, as the breeze fell, among thegrass: some to germinate, some to perish. His eye followed them untilthey had vanished. 

"I can't go back to Surbiton, " said the Young Lady in Grey. 

"EIGH?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, catching at his moustache. This was anunexpected development. 

"I want to write, you see, " said the Young Lady in Grey, "to write Booksand alter things. To do Good. I want to lead a Free Life and Own myself. I can't go back. I want to obtain a position as a journalist. I havebeen told--But I know no one to help me at once. No one that I couldgo to. There is one person--She was a mistress at my school. If I couldwrite to her--But then, how could I get her answer?"

"H'mp, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, very grave. 

"I can't trouble you much more. You have come--you have risked things--"

"That don't count, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "It's double pay to let me doit, so to speak. "

"It is good of you to say that. Surbiton is so Conventional. I amresolved to be Unconventional--at any cost. But we are so hampered. IfI could only burgeon out of all that hinders me! I want to struggle, totake my place in the world. I want to be my own mistress, to shape myown career. But my stepmother objects so. She does as she likes herself, and is strict with me to ease her conscience. And if I go back now, goback owning myself beaten--" She left the rest to his imagination. 

"I see that, " agreed Mr. Hoopdriver. He MUST help her. Within hisskull he was doing some intricate arithmetic with five pounds six andtwopence. In some vague way he inferred from all this that Jessie wastrying to escape from an undesirable marriage, but was saying thesethings out of modesty. His circle of ideas was so limited. 

"You know, Mr. --I've forgotten your name again. "

Mr. Hoopdriver seemed lost in abstraction. "You can't go back of course, quite like that, " he said thoughtfully. His ears waxed suddenly red andhis cheeks flushed. 

"But what IS your name?"

"Name!" said Mr. Hoopdriver. "Why!--Benson, of course. "

"Mr. Benson--yes it's really very stupid of me. But I can never remembernames. I must make a note on my cuff. " She clicked a little silverpencil and wrote the name down. "If I could write to my friend. Ibelieve she would be able to help me to an independent life. I couldwrite to her--or telegraph. Write, I think. I could scarcely explain ina telegram. I know she would help me. "

Clearly there was only one course open to a gentleman under thecircumstances. "In that case, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, "if you don't mindtrusting yourself to a stranger, we might continue as we are perhaps. For a day or so. Until you heard. " (Suppose thirty shillings a day, thatgives four days, say four thirties is hun' and twenty, six quid, --well, three days, say; four ten. )

"You are very good to me. "

His expression was eloquent. 

"Very well, then, and thank you. It's wonderful--it's more than Ideserve that you--" She dropped the theme abruptly. "What was our billat Chichester?"

"Eigh?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, feigning a certain stupidity. There was abrief discussion. Secretly he was delighted at her insistence in paying. She carried her point. Their talk came round to their immediate plansfor the day. They decided to ride easily, through Havant, and stop, perhaps, at Fareham or Southampton. For the previous day had tried themboth. Holding the map extended on his knee, Mr. Hoopdriver's eye fellby chance on the bicycle at his feet. "That bicycle, " he remarked, quiteirrelevantly, "wouldn't look the same machine if I got a big, doubleElarum instead of that little bell. "

"Why?"

"Jest a thought. " A pause. 

"Very well, then, --Havant and lunch, " said Jessie, rising. 

"I wish, somehow, we could have managed it without stealing thatmachine, " said Hoopdriver. "Because it IS stealing it, you know, come tothink of it. "

"Nonsense. If Mr. Bechamel troubles you--I will tell the whole world--ifneed be. "

"I believe you would, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, admiring her. "You're pluckyenough--goodness knows. "

Discovering suddenly that she was standing, he, too, rose and picked upher machine. She took it and wheeled it into the road. Then he took hisown. He paused, regarding it. "I say!" said he. "How'd this bike look, now, if it was enamelled grey?" She looked over her shoulder at hisgrave face. "Why try and hide it in that way?"

"It was jest a passing thought, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, airily. "Didn'tMEAN anything, you know. "

As they were riding on to Havant it occurred to Mr. Hoopdriver in atransitory manner that the interview had been quite other than hisexpectation. But that was the way with everything in Mr. Hoopdriver'sexperience. And though his Wisdom looked grave within him, and Cautionwas chinking coins, and an ancient prejudice in favour of Property shookher head, something else was there too, shouting in his mind to drownall these saner considerations, the intoxicating thought of ridingbeside Her all to-day, all to-morrow, perhaps for other days after that. Of talking to her familiarly, being brother of all her slender strengthand freshness, of having a golden, real, and wonderful time beyond allhis imaginings. His old familiar fancyings gave place to anticipationsas impalpable and fluctuating and beautiful as the sunset of a summerday. 

At Havant he took an opportunity to purchase, at small hairdresser's inthe main street, a toothbrush, a pair of nail scissors, and a littlebottle of stuff to darken the moustache, an article the shopmanintroduced to his attention, recommended highly, and sold in theexcitement of the occasion. 

XXIX. THE UNEXPECTED ANECDOTE OF THE LION

They rode on to Cosham and lunched lightly but expensively there. Jessiewent out and posted her letter to her school friend. Then the greenheight of Portsdown Hill tempted them, and leaving their machines in thevillage they clambered up the slope to the silent red-brick fort thatcrowned it. Thence they had a view of Portsmouth and its cluster ofsister towns, the crowded narrows of the harbour, the Solent and theIsle of Wight like a blue cloud through the hot haze. Jessie by somemiracle had become a skirted woman in the Cosham inn. Mr. Hoopdriverlounged gracefully on the turf, smoked a Red Herring cigarette, andlazily regarded the fortified towns that spread like a map away there, the inner line of defence like toy fortifications, a mile off perhaps;and beyond that a few little fields and then the beginnings of Landportsuburb and the smoky cluster of the multitudinous houses. To the rightat the head of the harbour shallows the town of Porchester rose amongthe trees. Mr. Hoopdriver's anxiety receded to some remote corner of hisbrain and that florid half-voluntary imagination of his shared the stagewith the image of Jessie. He began to speculate on the impression hewas creating. He took stock of his suit in a more optimistic spirit, and reviewed, with some complacency, his actions for the last fourand twenty hours. Then he was dashed at the thought of her infiniteperfections. 

She had been observing him quietly, rather more closely during the lasthour or so. She did not look at him directly because he seemed alwayslooking at her. Her own troubles had quieted down a little, and hercuriosity about the chivalrous, worshipping, but singular gentleman inbrown, was awakening. She had recalled, too, the curious incident oftheir first encounter. She found him hard to explain to herself. Youmust understand that her knowledge of the world was rather less thannothing, having been obtained entirely from books. You must not take acertain ignorance for foolishness. 

She had begun with a few experiments. He did not know French except'sivver play, ' a phrase he seemed to regard as a very good lighttable joke in itself. His English was uncertain, but not such as booksinformed her distinguished the lower classes. His manners seemed to hergood on the whole, but a trifle over-respectful and out of fashion. Hecalled her I Madam' once. He seemed a person of means and leisure, buthe knew nothing of recent concerts, theatres, or books. How did he spendhis time? He was certainly chivalrous, and a trifle simpleminded. Shefancied (so much is there in a change of costume) that she had never metwith such a man before. What COULD he be?

"Mr. Benson, " she said, breaking a silence devoted to landscape. 

He rolled over and regarded her, chin on knuckles. 

"At your service. "

"Do you paint? Are you an artist?"

"Well. " Judicious pause. "I should hardly call myself a Nartist, youknow. I DO paint a little. And sketch, you know--skitty kind of things. "

He plucked and began to nibble a blade of grass. It was really notso much lying as his quick imagination that prompted him to add, "InPapers, you know, and all that. "

"I see, " said Jessie, looking at him thoughtfully. Artists were a veryheterogeneous class certainly, and geniuses had a trick of being alittle odd. He avoided her eye and bit his grass. "I don't do MUCH, youknow. "

"It's not your profession?

"Oh, no, " said Hoopdriver, anxious now to hedge. "I don't make a regularthing of it, you know. Jest now and then something comes into my headand down it goes. No--I'm not a regular artist. "

"Then you don't practise any regular profession?" Mr. Hoopdriver lookedinto her eyes and saw their quiet unsuspicious regard. He had vagueideas of resuming the detective role. "It's like this, " he said, togain time. "I have a sort of profession. Only there's a kind ofreason--nothing much, you know. "

"I beg your pardon for cross-examining you. "

"No trouble, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "Only I can't very well--I leave itto you, you know. I don't want to make any mystery of it, so far asthat goes. " Should he plunge boldly and be a barrister? That anyhow wassomething pretty good. But she might know about barristry. 

"I think I could guess what you are. "

"Well--guess, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"You come from one of the colonies?"

"Dear me!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, veering round to the new wind. "How didyou find out THAT?" (the man was born in a London suburb, dear Reader. )

"I guessed, " she said. 

He lifted his eyebrows as one astonished, and clutched a new piece ofgrass. 

"You were educated up country. "

"Good again, " said Hoopdriver, rolling over again into her elbow. "You're a CLAIRVOY ant. " He bit at the grass, smiling. "Which colony wasit?"

"That I don't know. "

"You must guess, " said Hoopdriver. 

"South Africa, " she said. "I strongly incline to South Africa. "

"South Africa's quite a large place, " he said. 

"But South Africa is right?"

"You're warm, " said Hoopdriver, "anyhow, " and the while his imaginationwas eagerly exploring this new province. 

"South Africa IS right?" she insisted. 

He turned over again and nodded, smiling reassuringly into her eyes. 

"What made me think of South Africa was that novel of Olive Schreiner's, you know--'The Story of an African Farm. ' Gregory Rose is so like you. "

"I never read 'The Story of an African Farm, '" said Hoopdriver. "I must. What's he like?"

"You must read the book. But it's a wonderful place, with its mixtureof races, and its brand-new civilisation jostling the old savagery. Wereyou near Khama?"

"He was a long way off from our place, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "We hada little ostrich farm, you know--Just a few hundred of 'em, outJohannesburg way. "

"On the Karroo--was it called?"

"That's the term. Some of it was freehold though. Luckily. We got alongvery well in the old days. --But there's no ostriches on that farm now. "He had a diamond mine in his head, just at the moment, but he stoppedand left a little to the girl's imagination. Besides which it hadoccurred to him with a kind of shock that he was lying. 

"What became of the ostriches?"

"We sold 'em off, when we parted with the farm. Do you mind if I haveanother cigarette? That was when I was quite a little chap, you know, that we had this ostrich farm. "

"Did you have Blacks and Boers about you?"

"Lots, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, striking a match on his instep andbeginning to feel hot at the new responsibility he had brought uponhimself. 

"How interesting! Do you know, I've never been out of England except toParis and Mentone and Switzerland. "

"One gets tired of travelling (puff) after a bit, of course. "

"You must tell me about your farm in South Africa. It always stimulatesmy imagination to think of these places. I can fancy all the tallostriches being driven out by a black herd--to graze, I suppose. How doostriches feed?"

"Well, " said Hoopdriver. "That's rather various. They have theirfancies, you know. There's fruit, of course, and that kind of thing. Andchicken food, and so forth. You have to use judgment. "

"Did you ever see a lion?" "They weren't very common in our district, "said Hoopdriver, quite modestly. "But I've seen them, of course. Once ortwice. "

"Fancy seeing a lion! Weren't you frightened?"

Mr. Hoopdriver was now thoroughly sorry he had accepted that offer ofSouth Africa. He puffed his cigarette and regarded the Solent languidlyas he settled the fate on that lion in his mind. "I scarcely had time, "he said. "It all happened in a minute. "

"Go on, " she said. 

"I was going across the inner paddock where the fatted ostriches were. "

"Did you EAT ostriches, then? I did not know--"

"Eat them!--often. Very nice they ARE too, properly stuffed. Well, we--I, rather--was going across this paddock, and I saw somethingstanding up in the moonlight and looking at me. " Mr. Hoopdriver was in ahot perspiration now. His invention seemed to have gone limp. "LuckilyI had my father's gun with me. I was scared, though, I can tell you. (Puff. ) I just aimed at the end that I thought was the head. And letfly. (Puff. ) And over it went, you know. "

"Dead?"

"AS dead. It was one of the luckiest shots I ever fired. And I wasn'tmuch over nine at the time, neither. "

"_I_ should have screamed and run away. "

"There's some things you can't run away from, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "Torun would have been Death. "

"I don't think I ever met a lion-killer before, " she remarked, evidentlywith a heightened opinion of him. 

There was a pause. She seemed meditating further questions. Mr. Hoopdriver drew his watch hastily. "I say, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, showingit to her, "don't you think we ought to be getting on?"

His face was flushed, his ears bright red. She ascribed his confusionto modesty. He rose with a lion added to the burthens of his conscience, and held out his hand to assist her. They walked down into Coshamagain, resumed their machines, and went on at a leisurely pace alongthe northern shore of the big harbour. But Mr. Hoopdriver was no longerhappy. This horrible, this fulsome lie, stuck in his memory. Why HAD hedone it? She did not ask for any more South African stories, happily--atleast until Porchester was reached--but talked instead of LivingOne's Own Life, and how custom hung on people like chains. She talkedwonderfully, and set Hoopdriver's mind fermenting. By the Castle, Mr. Hoopdriver caught several crabs in little shore pools. At Fareham theystopped for a second tea, and left the place towards the hour of sunset, under such invigorating circumstances as you shall in due course hear. 

XXX. THE RESCUE EXPEDITION

And now to tell of those energetic chevaliers, Widgery, Dangle, andPhipps, and of that distressed beauty, 'Thomas Plantagenet, ' well knownin society, so the paragraphs said, as Mrs. Milton. We left them atMidhurst station, if I remember rightly, waiting, in a state of fineemotion, for the Chichester train. It was clearly understood by theentire Rescue Party that Mrs. Milton was bearing up bravely againstalmost overwhelming grief. The three gentlemen outdid one another insympathetic expedients; they watched her gravely almost tenderly. Thesubstantial Widgery tugged at his moustache, and looked his unspeakablefeelings at her with those dog-like, brown eyes of his; the slenderDangle tugged at HIS moustache, and did what he could with unsympatheticgrey ones. Phipps, unhappily, had no moustache to run any risks with, sohe folded his arms and talked in a brave, indifferent, bearing-up toneabout the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway, just to cheer thepoor woman up a little. And even Mrs. Milton really felt that exaltedmelancholy to the very bottom of her heart, and tried to show it in adozen little, delicate, feminine ways. 

"There is nothing to do until we get to Chichester, " said Dangle. "Nothing. "

"Nothing, " said Widgery, and aside in her ear: "You really ate scarcelyanything, you know. "

"Their trains are always late, " said Phipps, with his fingers along theedge of his collar. Dangle, you must understand, was a sub-editor andreviewer, and his pride was to be Thomas Plantagenet's intellectualcompanion. Widgery, the big man, was manager of a bank and a mightygolfer, and his conception of his relations to her never came into hismind without those charming oldlines, "Douglas, Douglas, tender andtrue, " falling hard upon its heels. His name was Douglas-DouglasWidgery. And Phipps, Phipps was a medical student still, and he feltthat he laid his heart at her feet, the heart of a man of the world. She was kind to them all in her way, and insisted on their beingfriends together, in spite of a disposition to reciprocal criticismthey displayed. Dangle thought Widgery a Philistine, appreciating butcoarsely the merits of "A Soul Untrammelled, " and Widgery thought Danglelacked, humanity--would talk insincerely to say a clever thing. BothDangle and Widgery thought Phipps a bit of a cub, and Phipps thoughtboth Dangle and Widgery a couple of Thundering Bounders. 

"They would have got to Chichester in time for lunch, " said Dangle, inthe train. "After, perhaps. And there's no sufficient place in the road. So soon as we get there, Phipps must inquire at the chief hotels to seeif any one answering to her description has lunched there. "

"Oh, I'LL inquire, " said Phipps. "Willingly. I suppose you and Widgerywill just hang about--"

He saw an expression of pain on Mrs. Milton's gentle face, and stoppedabruptly. 

"No, " said Dangle, "we shan't HANG ABOUT, as you put it. There aretwo places in Chichester where tourists might go--the cathedral and aremarkably fine museum. I shall go to the cathedral and make an inquiryor so, while Widgery--"

"The museum. Very well. And after that there's a little thing or twoI've thought of myself, " said Widgery. 

To begin with they took Mrs. Milton in a kind of procession to the RedHotel and established her there with some tea. "You are so kind tome, " she said. "All of you. " They signified that it was nothing, anddispersed to their inquiries. By six they returned, their zeal a littledamped, without news. Widgery came back with Dangle. Phipps was the lastto return. "You're quite sure, " said Widgery, "that there isn't any flawin that inference of yours?"

"Quite, " said Dangle, rather shortly. 

"Of course, " said Widgery, "their starting from Midhurst on theChichester road doesn't absolutely bind them not to change their minds. "

"My dear fellow!--It does. Really it does. You must allow me to haveenough intelligence to think of cross-roads. Really you must. Therearen't any cross-roads to tempt them. Would they turn aside here? No. Would they turn there? Many more things are inevitable than you fancy. "

"We shall see at once, " said Widgery, at the window. "Here comes Phipps. For my own part--"

"Phipps!" said Mrs. Milton. "Is he hurrying? Does he look--" She rose inher eagerness, biting her trembling lip, and went towards the window. 

"No news, " said Phipps, entering. 

"Ah!" said Widgery. 

"None?" said Dangle. 

"Well, " said Phipps. "One fellow had got hold of a queer story of a manin bicycling clothes, who was asking the same question about this timeyesterday. "

"What question?" said Mrs. Milton, in the shadow of the window. Shespoke in a low voice, almost a whisper. 

"Why--Have you seen a young lady in a grey bicycling costume?"

Dangle caught at his lower lip. "What's that?" he said. "Yesterday! Aman asking after her then! What can THAT mean?"

"Heaven knows, " said Phipps, sitting down wearily. "You'd better infer. "

"What kind of man?" said Dangle. 

"How should I know?--in bicycling costume, the fellow said. "

"But what height?--What complexion?"

"Didn't ask, " said Phipps. "DIDN'T ASK! Nonsense, " said Dangle. 

"Ask him yourself, " said Phipps. "He's an ostler chap in the WhiteHart, --short, thick-set fellow, with a red face and a crusty manner. Leaning up against the stable door. Smells of whiskey. Go and ask him. "

"Of course, " said Dangle, taking his straw hat from the shade over thestuffed bird on the chiffonier and turning towards the door. "I mighthave known. "

Phipps' mouth opened and shut. 

"You're tired, I'm sure, Mr. Phipps, " said the lady, soothingly. "Let mering for some tea for you. " It suddenly occurred to Phipps that he hadlapsed a little from his chivalry. "I was a little annoyed at the way herushed me to do all this business, " he said. "But I'd do a hundred timesas much if it would bring you any nearer to her. " Pause. "I WOULD like alittle tea. "

"I don't want to raise any false hopes, " said Widgery. "But I do NOTbelieve they even came to Chichester. Dangle's a very clever fellow, ofcourse, but sometimes these Inferences of his--"

"Tchak!" said Phipps, suddenly. 

"What is it?" said Mrs. Milton. 

"Something I've forgotten. I went right out from here, went to everyother hotel in the place, and never thought--But never mind. I'll askwhen the waiter comes. "

"You don't mean--" A tap, and the door opened. "Tea, m'm? yes, m'm, "said the waiter. 

"One minute, " said Phipps. "Was a lady in grey, a cycling lady--"

"Stopped here yesterday? Yessir. Stopped the night. With her brother, sir--a young gent. "

"Brother!" said Mrs. Milton, in a low tone. "Thank God!"

The waiter glanced at her and understood everything. "A young gent, sir, " he said, "very free with his money. Give the name of Beaumont. "He proceeded to some rambling particulars, and was cross-examined byWidgery on the plans of the young couple. 

"Havant! Where's Havant?" said Phipps. "I seem to remember itsomewhere. "

"Was the man tall?" said Mrs. Milton, intently, "distinguished looking?with a long, flaxen moustache? and spoke with a drawl?"

"Well, " said the waiter, and thought. "His moustache, m'm, was scarcelylong--scrubby more, and young looking. "

"About thirty-five, he was?"

"No, m'm. More like five and twenty. Not that. "

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Milton, speaking in a curious, hollow voice, fumbling for her salts, and showing the finest self-control. "It musthave been her YOUNGER brother--must have been. "

"That will do, thank you, " said Widgery, officiously, feeling that shewould be easier under this new surprise if the man were dismissed. Thewaiter turned to go, and almost collided with Dangle, who was enteringthe room, panting excitedly and with a pocket handkerchief held to hisright eye. "Hullo!" said dangle. "What's up?"

"What's up with YOU?" said Phipps. 

"Nothing--an altercation merely with that drunken ostler of yours. Hethought it was a plot to annoy him--that the Young Lady in Grey wasmythical. Judged from your manner. I've got a piece of raw meat to keepover it. You have some news, I see?"

"Did the man hit you?" asked Widgery. 

Mrs. Milton rose and approached Dangle. "Cannot I do anything?"

Dangle was heroic. "Only tell me your news, " he said, round the cornerof the handkerchief. 

"It was in this way, " said Phipps, and explained rather sheepishly. While he was doing so, with a running fire of commentary from Widgery, the waiter brought in a tray of tea. "A time table, " said Dangle, promptly, "for Havant. " Mrs. Milton poured two cups, and Phipps andDangle partook in passover form. They caught the train by a hair'sbreadth. So to Havant and inquiries. 

Dangle was puffed up to find that his guess of Havant was right. In viewof the fact that beyond Havant the Southampton road has a steep hillcontinuously on the right-hand side, and the sea on the left, he hitupon a magnificent scheme for heading the young folks off. He and Mrs. Milton would go to Fareham, Widgery and Phipps should alight one each atthe intermediate stations of Cosham and Porchester, and come on by thenext train if they had no news. If they did not come on, a wire to theFareham post office was to explain why. It was Napoleonic, and more thanconsoled Dangle for the open derision of the Havant street boys at thehandkerchief which still protected his damaged eye. 

Moreover, the scheme answered to perfection. The fugitives escaped bya hair's breadth. They were outside the Golden Anchor at Fareham, andpreparing to mount, as Mrs. Milton and Dangle came round the cornerfrom the station. "It's her!" said Mrs. Milton, and would have screamed. "Hist!" said Dangle, gripping the lady's arm, removing his handkerchiefin his excitement, and leaving the piece of meat over his eye, anextraordinary appearance which seemed unexpectedly to calm her. "Becool!" said Dangle, glaring under the meat. "They must not see us. Theywill get away else. Were there flys at the station?" The young couplemounted and vanished round the corner of the Winchester road. Had it notbeen for the publicity of the business, Mrs. Milton would have fainted. "SAVE HER!" she said. 

"Ah! A conveyance, " said Dangle. "One minute. "

He left her in a most pathetic attitude, with her hand pressed to herheart, and rushed into the Golden Anchor. Dog cart in ten minutes. Emerged. The meat had gone now, and one saw the cooling puffiness overhis eye. "I will conduct you back to the station, " said Dangle; "hurryback here, and pursue them. You will meet Widgery and Phipps and tellthem I am in pursuit. "

She was whirled back to the railway station and left there, on a hard, blistered, wooden seat in the sun. She felt tired and dreadfullyruffled and agitated and dusty. Dangle was, no doubt, most energeticand devoted; but for a kindly, helpful manner commend her to DouglasWidgery. 

Meanwhile Dangle, his face golden in the evening sun, was driving (aswell as he could) a large, black horse harnessed into a thing called agig, northwestward towards Winchester. Dangle, barring his swollen eye, was a refined-looking little man, and he wore a deerstalker cap and wasdressed in dark grey. His neck was long and slender. Perhaps you knowwhat gigs are, --huge, big, wooden things and very high and the horse, too, was huge and big and high, with knobby legs, a long face, a hardmouth, and a whacking trick of pacing. Smack, smack, smack, smack itwent along the road, and hard by the church it shied vigorously at ahooded perambulator. 

The history of the Rescue Expedition now becomes confused. It appearsthat Widgery was extremely indignant to find Mrs. Milton left about uponthe Fareham platform. The day had irritated him somehow, though hehad started with the noblest intentions, and he seemed glad to find anoutlet for justifiable indignation. "He's such a spasmodic creature, "said Widgery. "Rushing off! And I suppose we're to wait here until hecomes back! It's likely. He's so egotistical, is Dangle. Always wants tomismanage everything himself. "

"He means to help me, " said Mrs. Milton, a little reproachfully, touching his arm. Widgery was hardly in the mood to be mollified allat once. "He need not prevent ME, " he said, and stopped. "It's no goodtalking, you know, and you are tired. "

"I can go on, " she said brightly, "if only we find her. " "While Iwas cooling my heels in Cosham I bought a county map. " He produced andopened it. "Here, you see, is the road out of Fareham. " He proceededwith the calm deliberation of a business man to develop a proposalof taking train forthwith to Winchester. "They MUST be going toWinchester, " he explained. It was inevitable. To-morrow Sunday, Winchester a cathedral town, road going nowhere else of the slightestimportance. 

"But Mr. Dangle?"

"He will simply go on until he has to pass something, and then he willbreak his neck. I have seen Dangle drive before. It's scarcely likelya dog-cart, especially a hired dog-cart, will overtake bicycles in thecool of the evening. Rely upon me, Mrs. Milton--"

"I am in your hands, " she said, with pathetic littleness, looking up athim, and for the moment he forgot the exasperation of the day. 

Phipps, during this conversation, had stood in a somewhat depressedattitude, leaning on his stick, feeling his collar, and looking from onespeaker to the other. The idea of leaving Dangle behind seemed to him anexcellent one. "We might leave a message at the place where he got thedog-cart, " he suggested, when he saw their eyes meeting. There was acheerful alacrity about all three at the proposal. 

But they never got beyond Botley. For even as their train ran into thestation, a mighty rumbling was heard, there was a shouting overhead, theguard stood astonished on the platform, and Phipps, thrusting hishead out of the window, cried, "There he goes!" and sprang out of thecarriage. Mrs. Milton, following in alarm, just saw it. From Widgery itwas hidden. Botley station lies in a cutting, overhead was the roadway, and across the lemon yellows and flushed pinks of the sunset, therewhirled a great black mass, a horse like a long-nosed chess knight, the upper works of a gig, and Dangle in transit from front to back. A monstrous shadow aped him across the cutting. It was the event of asecond. Dangle seemed to jump, hang in the air momentarily, and vanish, and after a moment's pause came a heart-rending smash. Then two blackheads running swiftly. 

"Better get out, " said Phipps to Mrs. Milton, who stood fascinated inthe doorway. 

In another moment all three were hurrying up the steps. They foundDangle, hatless, standing up with cut hands extended, having his handsbrushed by an officious small boy. A broad, ugly road ran downhill in along vista, and in the distance was a little group of Botley inhabitantsholding the big, black horse. Even at that distance they could seethe expression of conscious pride on the monster's visage. It was aswooden-faced a horse as you can imagine. The beasts in the Tower ofLondon, on which the men in armour are perched, are the only horses Ihave ever seen at all like it. However, we are not concerned now withthe horse, but with Dangle. "Hurt?" asked Phipps, eagerly, leading. 

"Mr. Dangle!" cried Mrs. Milton, clasping her hands. 

"Hullo!" said Dangle, not surprised in the slightest. "Glad you've come. I may want you. Bit of a mess I'm in--eigh? But I've caught 'em. At thevery place I expected, too. "

"Caught them!" said Widgery. "Where are they?"

"Up there, " he said, with a backward motion of his head. "About a mileup the hill. I left 'em. I HAD to. "

"I don't understand, " said Mrs. Milton, with that rapt, painful lookagain. "Have you found Jessie?"

"I have. I wish I could wash the gravel out of my hands somewhere. Itwas like this, you know. Came on them suddenly round a corner. Horseshied at the bicycles. They were sitting by the roadside botanisingflowers. I just had time to shout, 'Jessie Milton, we've been lookingfor you, ' and then that confounded brute bolted. I didn't dare turnround. I had all my work to do to save myself being turned over, as itwas--so long as I did, I mean. I just shouted, 'Return to your friends. All will be forgiven. ' And off I came, clatter, clatter. Whether theyheard--"

"TAKE ME TO HER, " said Mrs. Milton, with intensity, turning towardsWidgery. 

"Certainly, " said Widgery, suddenly becoming active. "How far is it, Dangle?"

"Mile and a half or two miles. I was determined to find them, you know. I say though--Look at my hands! But I beg your pardon, Mrs. Milton. " Heturned to Phipps. "Phipps, I say, where shall I wash the gravel out? Andhave a look at my knee?"

"There's the station, " said Phipps, becoming helpful. Dangle made astep, and a damaged knee became evident. "Take my arm, " said Phipps. 

"Where can we get a conveyance?" asked Widgery of two small boys. 

The two small boys failed to understand. They looked at one another. 

"There's not a cab, not a go-cart, in sight, " said Widgery. "It's a caseof a horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse. "

"There's a harse all right, " said one of the small boys with a movementof the head. 

"Don't you know where we can hire traps?" asked Widgery. "Or a cartor--anything?" asked Mrs. Milton. 

"John Ooker's gart a cart, but no one can't 'ire'n, " said the larger ofthe small boys, partially averting his face and staring down the roadand making a song of it. "And so's my feyther, for's leg us broke. "

"Not a cart even! Evidently. What shall we do?"

It occurred to Mrs. Milton that if Widgery was the man for courtlydevotion, Dangle was infinitely readier of resource. "I suppose--" shesaid, timidly. "Perhaps if you were to ask Mr. Dangle--"

And then all the gilt came off Widgery. He answered quite rudely. "Confound Dangle! Hasn't he messed us up enough? He must needs driveafter them in a trap to tell them we're coming, and now you want me toask him--"

Her beautiful blue eyes were filled with tears. He stopped abruptly. "I'll go and ask Dangle, " he said, shortly. "If you wish it. " And wentstriding into the station and down the steps, leaving her in the roadunder the quiet inspection of the two little boys, and with a kind ofballad refrain running through her head, "Where are the Knights of theOlden Time?" and feeling tired to death and hungry and dusty and out ofcurl, and, in short, a martyr woman. 

XXXI. 

It goes to my heart to tell of the end of that day, how the fugitivesvanished into Immensity; how there were no more trains how Botley staredunsympathetically with a palpable disposition to derision, denyingconveyances how the landlord of the Heron was suspicious, how the nextday was Sunday, and the hot summer's day had crumpled the collar ofPhipps and stained the skirts of Mrs. Milton, and dimmed the radiantemotions of the whole party. Dangle, with sticking-plaster and a blackeye, felt the absurdity of the pose of the Wounded Knight, and abandonedit after the faintest efforts. Recriminations never, perhaps, held theforeground of the talk, but they played like summer lightning on theedge of the conversation. And deep in the hearts of all was a gallingsense of the ridiculous. Jessie, they thought, was most to blame. Apparently, too, the worst, which would have made the whole businesstragic, was not happening. Here was a young woman--young woman do I say?a mere girl!--had chosen to leave a comfortable home in Surbiton, andall the delights of a refined and intellectual circle, and had rushedoff, trailing us after her, posing hard, mutually jealous, and now tiredand weather-worn, to flick us off at last, mere mud from her wheel, intothis detestable village beer-house on a Saturday night! And she haddone it, not for Love and Passion, which are serious excuses one mayrecognise even if one must reprobate, but just for a Freak, just for afantastic Idea; for nothing, in fact, but the outraging of Common Sense. Yet withal, such was our restraint, that we talked of her still as onemuch misguided, as one who burthened us with anxiety, as a lamb astray, and Mrs. Milton having eaten, continued to show the finest feelings onthe matter. 

She sat, I may mention, in the cushioned basket-chair, the onlycomfortable chair in the room, and we sat on incredibly hard, horsehair things having antimacassars tied to their backs by meansof lemon-coloured bows. It was different from those dear old talks atSurbiton, somehow. She sat facing the window, which was open (the nightwas so tranquil and warm), and the dim light--for we did not use thelamp--suited her admirably. She talked in a voice that told you she wastired, and she seemed inclined to state a case against herself in thematter of "A Soul Untrammelled. " It was such an evening as might live ina sympathetic memoir, but it was a little dull while it lasted. 

"I feel, " she said, "that I am to blame. I have Developed. That firstbook of mine--I do not go back upon a word of it, mind, but it has beenmisunderstood, misapplied. "

"It has, " said Widgery, trying to look so deeply sympathetic as to bevisible in the dark. "Deliberately misunderstood. "

"Don't say that, " said the lady. "Not deliberately. I try and think thatcritics are honest. After their lights. I was not thinking of critics. But she--I mean--" She paused, an interrogation. 

"It is possible, " said Dangle, scrutinising his sticking-plaster. 

"I write a book and state a case. I want people to THINK as I recommend, not to DO as I recommend. It is just Teaching. Only I make it into astory. I want to Teach new Ideas, new Lessons, to promulgate Ideas. Thenwhen the Ideas have been spread abroad--Things will come about. Only nowit is madness to fly in the face of the established order. Bernard Shaw, you know, has explained that with regard to Socialism. We all know thatto earn all you consume is right, and that living on invested capital iswrong. Only we cannot begin while we are so few. It is Those Others. "

"Precisely, " said Widgery. "It is Those Others. They must begin first. "

"And meanwhile you go on banking--"

"If I didn't, some one else would. "

"And I live on Mr. Milton's Lotion while I try to gain a footing inLiterature. "

"TRY!" said Phipps. "You HAVE done so. " And, "That's different, " saidDangle, at the same time. 

"You are so kind to me. But in this matter. Of course Georgina Griffithsin my book lived alone in a flat in Paris and went to life classes andhad men visitors, but then she was over twenty-one. "

"Jessica is only seventeen, and girlish for that, " said Dangle. 

"It alters everything. That child! It is different with a woman. AndGeorgina Griffiths never flaunted her freedom--on a bicycle, in countryplaces. In this country. Where every one is so particular. Fancy, SLEEPING away from home. It's dreadful--If it gets about it spells ruinfor her. "

"Ruin, " said Widgery. 

"No man would marry a girl like that, " said Phipps. 

"It must be hushed up, " said Dangle. 

"It always seems to me that life is made up of individuals, ofindividual cases. We must weigh each person against his or hercircumstances. General rules don't apply--"

"I often feel the force of that, " said Widgery. "Those are my rules. Ofcourse my books--"

"It's different, altogether different, " said Dangle. "A novel deals withtypical cases. "

"And life is not typical, " said Widgery, with immense profundity. 

Then suddenly, unintentionally, being himself most surprised and shockedof any in the room, Phipps yawned. The failing was infectious, and thegathering having, as you can easily understand, talked itself weary, dispersed on trivial pretences. But not to sleep immediately. DirectlyDangle was alone he began, with infinite disgust, to scrutinise hisdarkling eye, for he was a neat-minded little man in spite of hisenergy. The whole business--so near a capture--was horribly vexatious. Phipps sat on his bed for some time examining, with equal disgust, acollar he would have thought incredible for Sunday twenty-four hoursbefore. Mrs. Milton fell a-musing on the mortality of even big, fat menwith dog-like eyes, and Widgery was unhappy because he had been so crossto her at the station, and because so far he did not feel that he hadscored over Dangle. Also he was angry with Dangle. And all four ofthem, being souls living very much upon the appearances of things, had apainful, mental middle distance of Botley derisive and suspicious, anda remoter background of London humorous, and Surbiton speculative. Werethey really, after all, behaving absurdly?

XXXII. MR. HOOPDRIVER, KNIGHT ERRANT

As Mr. Dangle bad witnessed, the fugitives had been left by him bythe side of the road about two miles from Botley. Before Mr. Dangle'sappearance, Mr. Hoopdriver had been learning with great interest thatmere roadside flowers had names, --star-flowers, wind-stars, St. John'swort, willow herb, lords and ladies, bachelor's buttons, --most curiousnames, some of them. "The flowers are all different in South Africa, y'know, " he was explaining with a happy fluke of his imagination toaccount for his ignorance. Then suddenly, heralded by clattering soundsand a gride of wheels, Dangle had flared and thundered across thetranquillity of the summer evening; Dangle, swaying and gesticulatingbehind a corybantic black horse, had hailed Jessie by her name, hadbacked towards the hedge for no ostensible reason, and vanished to theaccomplishment of the Fate that had been written down for him from thevery beginning of things. Jessie and Hoopdriver had scarcely time tostand up and seize their machines, before this tumultuous, this swiftand wonderful passing of Dangle was achieved. He went from side to sideof the road, --worse even than the riding forth of Mr. Hoopdriver itwas, --and vanished round the corner. 

"He knew my name, " said Jessie. "Yes--it was Mr. Dangle. "

"That was our bicycles did that, " said Mr. Hoopdriver simultaneously, and speaking with a certain complacent concern. "I hope he won't gethurt. "

"That was Mr. Dangle, " repeated Jessie, and Mr. Hoopdriver heard thistime, with a violent start. His eyebrows went up spasmodically. 

"What! someone you know?"

"Yes. "

"Lord!"

"He was looking for me, " said Jessie. "I could see. He began to call tome before the horse shied. My stepmother has sent him. "

Mr. Hoopdriver wished he had returned the bicycle after all, for hisideas were still a little hazy about Bechamel and Mrs. Milton. HonestyIS the best policy--often, he thought. He turned his head this way andthat. He became active. "After us, eigh? Then he'll come back. He's gonedown that hill, and he won't be able to pull up for a bit, I'm certain. "

Jessie, he saw, had wheeled her machine into the road and was mounting. Still staring at the corner that had swallowed up Dangle, Hoopdriverfollowed suit. And so, just as the sun was setting, they begananother flight together, --riding now towards Bishops Waltham, with Mr. Hoopdriver in the post of danger--the rear--ever and again looking overhis shoulder and swerving dangerously as he did so. Occasionally Jessiehad to slacken her pace. He breathed heavily, and hated himself becausehis mouth fell open, After nearly an hour's hard riding, they foundthemselves uncaught at Winchester. Not a trace of Dangle nor any otherdanger was visible as they rode into the dusky, yellow-lit street. Though the bats had been fluttering behind thehedges and the eveningstar was bright while they were still two miles from Winchester, Mr. Hoopdriver pointed out the dangers of stopping in such an obviousabiding-place, and gently but firmly insisted upon replenishing thelamps and riding on towards Salisbury. From Winchester, roads branch inevery direction, and to turn abruptly westward was clearly the way tothrow off the chase. As Hoopdriver saw the moon rising broad and yellowthrough the twilight, he thought he should revive the effect of thatride out of Bognor; but somehow, albeit the moon and all the atmosphericeffects were the same, the emotions were different. They rode inabsolute silence, and slowly after they had cleared the outskirts ofWinchester. Both of them were now nearly tired out, --the level wastedious, and even a little hill a burden; and so it came about thatin the hamlet of Wallenstock they were beguiled to stop and ask foraccommodation in an exceptionally prosperous-looking village inn. Aplausible landlady rose to the occasion. 

Now, as they passed into the room where their suppers were prepared, Mr. Hoopdriver caught a glimpse through a door ajar and floating in a reekof smoke, of three and a half faces--for the edge of the door cut onedown--and an American cloth-covered table with several glasses and atankard. And he also heard a remark. In the second before he heard thatremark, Mr. Hoopdriver had been a proud and happy man, to particularize, a baronet's heir incognito. He had surrendered their bicycles to the oddman of the place with infinite easy dignity, and had bowingly openedthe door for Jessie. "Who's that, then?" he imagined people saying;and then, "Some'n pretty well orf--judge by the bicycles. " Then theimaginary spectators would fall a-talking of the fashionableness ofbicycling, --how judges And stockbrokers and actresses and, in fact, allthe best people rode, and how that it was often the fancy of such greatfolk to shun the big hotels, the adulation of urban crowds, and seek, incognito, the cosy quaintnesses of village life. Then, maybe, theywould think of a certain nameless air of distinction about the ladywho had stepped across the doorway, and about the handsome, flaxen-moustached, blue-eyed Cavalier who had followed her in, and theywould look one to another. "Tell you what it is, " one of the villageelders would say--just as they do in novels--voicing the thought of all, in a low, impressive tone: "There's such a thin' as entertaining barranetsunawares--not to mention no higher things--"

Such, I say, had been the filmy, delightful stuff in Mr. Hoopdriver'shead the moment before he heard that remark. But the remark toppledhim headlong. What the precise remark was need not concern us. It wasa casual piece of such satire as Strephon delights in. Should you becurious, dear lady, as to its nature, you have merely to dress yourselfin a really modern cycling costume, get one of the feeblest-lookingof your men to escort you, and ride out, next Saturday evening, to anypublic house where healthy, homely people gather together. Then youwill hear quite a lot of the kind of thing Mr. Hoopdriver heard. More, possibly, than you will desire. 

The remark, I must add, implicated Mr. Hoopdriver. It indicated anentire disbelief in his social standing. At a blow, it shattered allthe gorgeous imaginative fabric his mind had been rejoicing in. All thatfoolish happiness vanished like a dream. And there was nothing to showfor it, as there is nothing to show for any spiteful remark that hasever been made. Perhaps the man who said the thing had a gleam ofsatisfaction at the idea of taking a complacent-looking fool down a peg, but it is just as possible he did not know at the time that his strayshot had hit. He had thrown it as a boy throws a stone at a bird. And itnot only demolished a foolish, happy conceit, but it wounded. It touchedJessie grossly. 

She did not hear it, he concluded from her subsequent bearing; butduring the supper they had in the little private dining-room, thoughshe talked cheerfully, he was preoccupied. Whiffs of indistinctconversation, and now and then laughter, came in from the inn parlorthrough the pelargoniums in the open window. Hoopdriver felt it mustall be in the same strain, --at her expense and his. He answered herabstractedly. She was tired, she said, and presently went to her room. Mr. Hoopdriver, in his courtly way, opened the door for her and bowedher out. He stood listening and fearing some new offence as she wentupstairs, and round the bend where the barometer hung beneath thestuffed birds. Then he went back to the room, and stood on the hearthrugbefore the paper fireplace ornament. "Cads!" he said in a scathingundertone, as a fresh burst of laughter came floating in. All throughsupper he had been composing stinging repartee, a blistering speech ofdenunciation to be presently delivered. He would rate them as a noblemanshould: "Call themselves Englishmen, indeed, and insult a woman!" hewould say; take the names and addresses perhaps, threaten to speak tothe Lord of the Manor, promise to let them hear from him again, and soout with consternation in his wake. It really ought to be done. 

"Teach 'em better, " he said fiercely, and tweaked his moustachepainfully. What was it? He revived the objectionable remark for his ownexasperation, and then went over the heads of his speech again. 

He coughed, made three steps towards the door, then stopped and wentback to the hearthrug. He wouldn't--after all. Yet was he not a KnightErrant? Should such men go unreproved, unchecked, by wandering baronetsincognito? Magnanimity? Look at it in that way? Churls beneath one'snotice? No; merely a cowardly subterfuge. He WOULD after all. 

Something within him protested that he was a hot-headed ass even as hewent towards the door again. But he only went on the more resolutely. Hecrossed the hall, by the bar, and entered the room from which the remarkhad proceeded. He opened the door abruptly and stood scowling on themin the doorway. "You'll only make a mess of it, " remarked the internalsceptic. There were five men in the room altogether: a fat person, with a long pipe and a great number of chins, in an armchair by thefireplace, who wished Mr. Hoopdriver a good evening very affably; ayoung fellow smoking a cutty and displaying crossed legs with gaiters;a little, bearded man with a toothless laugh; a middle-aged, comfortableman with bright eyes, who wore a velveteen jacket; and a fair young man, very genteel in a yellowish-brown ready-made suit and a white tie. 

"H'm, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, looking very stern and harsh. And then in aforbidding tone, as one who consented to no liberties, "Good evening. "

"Very pleasant day we've been 'aving, " said the fair young man with thewhite tie. 

"Very, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, slowly; and taking a brown armchair, heplanted it with great deliberation where he faced the fireplace, and satdown. Let's see--how did that speech begin?

"Very pleasant roads about here, " said the fair young man with the whitetie. 

"Very, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, eyeing him darkly. Have to begin somehow. "The roads about here are all right, and the weather about here isall right, but what I've come in here to say is--there's some damnedunpleasant people--damned unpleasant people!"

"Oh!" said the young man with the gaiters, apparently making a mentalinventory of his pearl buttons as he spoke. "How's that?"

Mr. Hoopdriver put his hands on his knees and stuck out his elbows withextreme angularity. In his heart he was raving at his idiotic folly atthus bearding these lions, --indisputably they WERE lions, --but he hadto go through with it now. Heaven send, his breath, which was alreadygetting a trifle spasmodic, did not suddenly give out. He fixed hiseye on the face of the fat man with the chins, and spoke in a low, impressive voice. "I came here, sir, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, and paused toinflate his cheeks, "with a lady. "

"Very nice lady, " said the man with the gaiters, putting his head on oneside to admire a pearl button that had been hiding behind the curvatureof his calf. "Very nice lady indeed. "

"I came here, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, "with a lady. "

"We saw you did, bless you, " said the fat man with the chins, ina curious wheezy voice. "I don't see there's anything so veryextraordinary in that. One 'ud think we hadn't eyes. "

Mr. Hoopdriver coughed. "I came, here, sir--"

"We've 'eard that, " said the little man with the beard, sharply and wentoff into an amiable chuckle. "We know it by 'art, " said the little man, elaborating the point. 

Mr. Hoopdriver temporarily lost his thread. He glared malignantly at thelittle man with the beard, and tried to recover his discourse. A pause. 

"You were saying, " said the fair young man with the white tie, speakingvery politely, "that you came here with a lady. "

"A lady, " meditated the gaiter gazer. 

The man in velveteen, who was looking from one speaker to another withkeen, bright eyes, now laughed as though a point had been scored, andstimulated Mr. Hoopdriver to speak, by fixing him with an expectantregard. 

"Some dirty cad, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, proceeding with his discourse, and suddenly growing extremely fierce, "made a remark as we went by thisdoor. "

"Steady on!" said the old gentleman with many chins. "Steady on! Don'tyou go a-calling us names, please. "

"One minute!" said Mr. Hoopdriver. "It wasn't I began calling names. "("Who did?" said the man with the chins. ) "I'm not calling any of youdirty cads. Don't run away with that impression. Only some person inthis room made a remark that showed he wasn't fit to wipe boots on, and, with all due deference to such gentlemen as ARE gentlemen" (Mr. Hoopdriver looked round for moral support), "I want to know which itwas. "

"Meanin'?" said the fair young man in the white tie. 

"That I'm going to wipe my boots on 'im straight away, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, reverting to anger, if with a slight catch in histhroat--than which threat of personal violence nothing had been furtherfrom his thoughts on entering the room. He said this because he couldthink of nothing else to say, and stuck out his elbows truculently tohide the sinking of his heart. It is curious how situations run awaywith us. 

"'Ullo, Charlie!" said the little man, and "My eye!" said the owner ofthe chins. "You're going to wipe your boots on 'im?" said the fair youngman, in a tone of mild surprise. 

"I am, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, with emphatic resolution, and glared in theyoung man's face. 

"That's fair and reasonable, " said the man in the velveteen jacket; "ifyou can. "

The interest of the meeting seemed transferred to the young man in thewhite tic. "Of course, if you can't find out which it is, I supposeyou're prepared to wipe your boots in a liberal way on everybody in theroom, " said this young man, in the same tone of impersonal question. "This gentleman, the champion lightweight--"

"Own up, Charlie, " said the young man with the gaiters, looking up for amoment. "And don't go a-dragging in your betters. It's fair and square. You can't get out of it. "

"Was it this--gent?" began Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"Of course, " said the young man in the white tie, "when it comes totalking of wiping boots--"

"I'm not talking; I'm going to do it, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

He looked round at the meeting. They were no longer antagonists; theywere spectators. He would have to go through with it now. But this toneof personal aggression on the maker of the remark had somehow got rid ofthe oppressive feeling of Hoopdriver contra mundum. Apparently, he wouldhave to fight someone. Would he get a black eye? Would he get very muchhurt? Pray goodness it wasn't that sturdy chap in the gaiters! Shouldhe rise and begin? What would she think if he brought a black eye tobreakfast to-morrow? "Is this the man?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, with abusiness-like calm, and arms more angular than ever. 

"Eat 'im!" said the little man with the beard; "eat 'im straight orf. "

"Steady on!" said the young man in the white tie. "Steady on a minute. If I did happen to say--"

"You did, did you?" said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"Backing out of it, Charlie?" said the young man with the gaiters. 

"Not a bit, " said Charlie. "Surely we can pass a bit of a joke--"

"I'm going to teach you to keep your jokes to yourself, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"Bray-vo!" said the shepherd of the flock of chins. 

"Charlie IS a bit too free with his jokes, " said the little man with thebeard. 

"It's downright disgusting, " said Hoopdriver, falling back upon hisspeech. "A lady can't ride a bicycle in a country road, or wear a dressa little out of the ordinary, but every dirty little greaser must needsgo shouting insults--"

"_I_ didn't know the young lady would hear what I said, " said Charlie. "Surely one can speak friendly to one's friends. How was I to know thedoor was open--"

Hoopdriver began to suspect that his antagonist was, if possible, moreseriously alarmed at the prospect of violence than himself, and hisspirits rose again. These chaps ought to have a thorough lesson. "OfCOURSE you knew the door was open, " he retorted indignantly. "Of COURSEyou thought we should hear what you said. Don't go telling lies aboutit. It's no good your saying things like that. You've had your fun, andyou meant to have your fun. And I mean to make an example of you, Sir. "

"Ginger beer, " said the little man with the beard, in a confidentialtone to the velveteen jacket, "is regular up this 'ot weather. Bustin'its bottles it is everywhere. "

"What's the good of scrapping about in a public-house?" said Charlie, appealing to the company. "A fair fight without interruptions, now, IWOULDN'T mind, if the gentleman's so disposed. "

Evidently the man was horribly afraid. Mr. Hoopdriver grew truculent. 

"Where you like, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, "jest wherever you like. "

"You insulted the gent, " said the man in velveteen. 

"Don't be a bloomin' funk, Charlie, " said the man in gaiters. "Why, yougot a stone of him, if you got an ounce. "

"What I say, is this, " said the gentleman with the excessive chins, trying to get a hearing by banging his chair arms. "If Charlie goessaying things, he ought to back 'em up. That's what I say. I don't mindhis sayin' such things 't all, but he ought to be prepared to back 'emup. "

"I'll BACK 'em up all right, " said Charlie, with extremely bitteremphasis on 'back. ' "If the gentleman likes to come Toosday week--"

"Rot!" chopped in Hoopdriver. "Now. "

"'Ear, 'ear, " said the owner of the chins. 

"Never put off till to-morrow, Charlie, what you can do to-day, " saidthe man in the velveteen coat. 

"You got to do it, Charlie, " said the man in gaiters. "It's no good. "

"It's like this, " said Charlie, appealing to everyone except Hoopdriver. "Here's me, got to take in her ladyship's dinner to-morrow night. Howshould I look with a black eye? And going round with the carriage with asplit lip?"

"If you don't want your face sp'iled, Charlie, why don't you keep yourmouth shut?" said the person in gaiters. 

"Exactly, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, driving it home with great fierceness. "Why don't you shut your ugly mouth?"

"It's as much as my situation's worth, " protested Charlie. 

"You should have thought of that before, " said Hoopdriver. 

"There's no occasion to be so thunderin' 'ot about it. I only meantthe thing joking, " said Charlie. "AS one gentleman to another, I'm verysorry if the gentleman's annoyed--"

Everybody began to speak at once. Mr. Hoopdriver twirled his moustache. He felt that Charlie's recognition of his gentlemanliness was at anyrate a redeeming feature. But it became his pose to ride hard and heavyover the routed foe. He shouted some insulting phrase over the tumult. 

"You're regular abject, " the man in gaiters was saying to Charlie. 

More confusion. 

"Only don't think I'm afraid, --not of a spindle-legged cuss like him, "shouted Charlie. "Because I ain't. "

"Change of front, " thought Hoopdriver, a little startled. "Where are wegoing?"

"Don't sit there and be abusive, " said the man in velveteen. "He'soffered to hit you, and if I was him, I'd hit you now. "

"All right, then, " said Charlie, with a sudden change of front andspringing to his feet. "If I must, I must. Now, then!" At that, Hoopdriver, the child of Fate, rose too, with a horrible sense that hisinternal monitor was right. Things had taken a turn. He had made a messof it, and now there was nothing for it, so far as he could see, but tohit the man at once. He and Charlie stood six feet apart, with atable between, both very breathless and fierce. A vulgar fight ina public-house, and with what was only too palpably a footman! GoodHeavens! And this was the dignified, scornful remonstrance! How thejuice had it all happened? Go round the table at him, I suppose. Butbefore the brawl could achieve itself, the man in gaiters intervened. "Not here, " he said, stepping between the antagonists. Everyone wasstanding up. 

"Charlie's artful, " said the little man with the beard. 

"Buller's yard, " said the man with the gaiters, taking the controlof the entire affair with the easy readiness of an accomplishedpractitioner. "If the gentleman DON'T mind. " Buller's yard, it seemed, was the very place. "We'll do the thing regular and decent, ifyou please. " And before he completely realized what was happening, Hoopdriver was being marched out through the back premises of the inn, to the first and only fight with fists that was ever to glorify hislife. 

Outwardly, so far as the intermittent moonlight showed, Mr. Hoopdriverwas quietly but eagerly prepared to fight. But inwardly he was a chaosof conflicting purposes. It was extraordinary how things happened. Oneremark had trod so closely on the heels of another, that he had had thegreatest difficulty in following the development of the business. He distinctly remembered himself walking across from one room to theother, --a dignified, even an aristocratic figure, primed with consideredeloquence, intent upon a scathing remonstrance to these wretched yokels, regarding their manners. Then incident had flickered into incident untilhere he was out in a moonlit lane, --a slight, dark figure in a groupof larger, indistinct figures, --marching in a quiet, business-like waytowards some unknown horror at Buller's yard. Fists! It was astonishing. It was terrible! In front of him was the pallid figure of Charles, andhe saw that the man in gaiters held Charles kindly but firmly by thearm. 

"It's blasted rot, " Charles was saying, "getting up a fight just for athing like that; all very well for 'im. 'E's got 'is 'olidays; 'e 'asn'tno blessed dinner to take up to-morrow night like I 'ave. --No need tonumb my arm, IS there?"

They went into Buller's yard through gates. There were sheds in Buller'syard--sheds of mystery that the moonlight could not solve--a smellof cows, and a pump stood out clear and black, throwing a clear blackshadow on the whitewashed wall. And here it was his face was to bebattered to a pulp. He knew this was the uttermost folly, to stand uphere and be pounded, but the way out of it was beyond his imagining. Yetafterwards--? Could he ever face her again? He patted his Norfolk jacketand took his ground with his back to the gate. How did one square? So?Suppose one were to turn and run even now, run straight back to theinn and lock himself into his bedroom? They couldn't make, him comeout--anyhow. He could prosecute them for assault if they did. How didone set about prosecuting for assault? He saw Charles, with his faceghastly white under the moon, squaring in front of him. 

He caught a blow on the arm and gave ground. Charles pressed him. Thenhe hit with his right and with the violence of despair. It was a hit ofhis own devising, --an impromptu, --but it chanced to coincide with theregulation hook hit at the head. He perceived with a leap of exultationthat the thing his fist had met was the jawbone of Charles. It was thesole gleam of pleasure he experienced during the fight, and it was quitemomentary. He had hardly got home upon Charles before he was struckin the chest and whirled backward. He had the greatest difficulty inkeeping his feet. He felt that his heart was smashed flat. "Gorddarm!" said somebody, dancing toe in hand somewhere behind him. As Mr. Hoopdriver staggered, Charles gave a loud and fear-compelling cry. Heseemed to tower over Hoopdriver in the moonlight. Both his fists werewhirling. It was annihilation coming--no less. Mr. Hoopdriver duckedperhaps and certainly gave ground to the right, hit, and missed. Charlesswept round to the left, missing generously. A blow glanced over Mr. Hoopdriver's left ear, and the flanking movement was completed. Another blow behind the ear. Heaven and earth spun furiously roundMr. Hoopdriver, and then he became aware of a figure in a light suitshooting violently through an open gate into the night. The man ingaiters sprang forward past Mr. Hoopdriver, but too late to interceptthe fugitive. There were shouts, laughter, and Mr. Hoopdriver, stillsolemnly squaring, realized the great and wonderful truth--Charles hadfled. He, Hoopdriver, had fought and, by all the rules of war, had won. 

"That was a pretty cut under the jaw you gave him, " the toothless littleman with the beard was remarking in an unexpectedly friendly manner. 

"The fact of it is, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, sitting beside the road toSalisbury, and with the sound of distant church bells in his cars, "Ihad to give the fellow a lesson; simply had to. "

"It seems so dreadful that you should have to knock people about, " saidJessie. 

"These louts get unbearable, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "If now and then wedidn't give them a lesson, --well, a lady cyclist in the roads would bean impossibility. "

"I suppose every woman shrinks from violence, " said Jessie. "Isuppose men ARE braver--in a way--than women. It seems to me-I can'timagine--how one could bring oneself to face a roomful of roughcharacters, pick out the bravest, and give him an exemplary thrashing. I quail at the idea. I thought only Ouida's guardsmen did things likethat. "

"It was nothing more than my juty--as a gentleman, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"But to walk straight into the face of danger!"

"It's habit, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, quite modestly, flicking off aparticle of cigarette ash that had settled on his knee. 

XXXIII. THE ABASEMENT OF MR. HOOPDRIVER

On Monday morning the two fugitives found themselves breakfasting at theGolden Pheasant in Blandford. They were in the course of an elaboratedoubling movement through Dorsetshire towards Ringwood, where Jessieanticipated an answer from her schoolmistress friend. By this time theyhad been nearly sixty hours together, and you will understand that Mr. Hoopdriver's feelings had undergone a considerable intensification anddevelopment. At first Jessie had been only an impressionist sketchupon his mind, something feminine, active, and dazzling, somethingemphatically "above" him, cast into his company by a kindly fate. His chief idea, at the outset, as you know, had been to live up toher level, by pretending to be more exceptional, more wealthy, bettereducated, and, above all, better born than he was. His knowledge of thefeminine mind was almost entirely derived from the young ladies he hadmet in business, and in that class (as in military society and amonggentlemen's servants) the good old tradition of a brutal socialexclusiveness is still religiously preserved. He had an almostintolerable dread of her thinking him a I bounder. ' Later he beganto perceive the distinction of her idiosyncracies. Coupled with amagnificent want of experience was a splendid enthusiasm for abstractviews of the most advanced description, and her strength of convictioncompletely carried Hoopdriver away. She was going to Live her Own Life, with emphasis, and Mr. Hoopdriver was profoundly stirred to similarresolves. So soon as he grasped the tenor of her views, he perceivedthat he himself had thought as much from his earliest years. "Ofcourse, " he remarked, in a flash of sexual pride, "a man is freer than awoman. End in the Colonies, y'know, there isn't half the Conventionalityyou find in society in this country. "

He made one or two essays in the display of unconventionality, andwas quite unaware that he impressed her as a narrow-minded person. Hesuppressed the habits of years and made no proposal to go to church. He discussed church-going in a liberal spirit. "It's jest a habit, " hesaid, "jest a custom. I don't see what good it does you at all, really. "And he made a lot of excellent jokes at the chimney-pot hat, jokes hehad read in the Globe 'turnovers' on that subject. But he showed hisgentle breeding by keeping his gloves on all through the Sunday's ride, and ostentatiously throwing away more than half a cigarette when theypassed a church whose congregation was gathering for afternoon service. He cautiously avoided literary topics, except by way of compliment, seeing that she was presently to be writing books. 

It was on Jessie's initiative that they attended service in theold-fashioned gallery of Blandford church. Jessie's conscience, I mayperhaps tell you, was now suffering the severest twinges. She perceivedclearly that things were not working out quite along the lines she haddesigned-. She had read her Olive Schreiner and George Egerton, and soforth, with all the want of perfect comprehension of one who is stillemotionally a girl. She knew the thing to do was to have a flat andto go to the British Museum and write leading articles for the dailypapers until something better came along. If Bechamel (detestableperson) had kept his promises, instead of behaving with unspeakablehorridness, all would have been well. Now her only hope was thatliberal-minded woman, Miss Mergle, who, a year ago, had sent her out, highly educated, into the world. Miss Mergle had told her at partingto live fearlessly and truly, and had further given her a volume ofEmerson's Essays and Motley's "Dutch Republic, " to help her through therapids of adolescence. 

Jessie's feelings for her stepmother's household at Surbiton amounted toan active detestation. There are no graver or more solemn women in theworld than these clever girls whose scholastic advancement has retardedtheir feminine coquetry. In spite of the advanced tone of 'ThomasPlantagenet's' antimarital novel, Jessie had speedily seen through thatamiable woman's amiable defences. The variety of pose necessitated bythe corps of 'Men' annoyed her to an altogether unreasonable degree. Toreturn to this life of ridiculous unreality--unconditional capitulationto 'Conventionality' was an exasperating prospect. Yet what else wasthere to do? You will understand, therefore, that at times she was moody(and Mr. Hoopdriver respectfully silent and attentive) and at timesinclined to eloquent denunciation of the existing order of things. Shewas a Socialist, Hoopdriver learnt, and he gave a vague intimationthat he went further, intending, thereby, no less than the horrorsof anarchism. He would have owned up to the destruction of the WinterPalace indeed, had he had the faintest idea where the Winter Palace was, and had his assurance amounted to certainty that the Winter Palace wasdestroyed. He agreed with her cordially that the position of women wasintolerable, but checked himself on the' verge of the proposition that agirl ought not to expect a fellow to hand down boxes for her when he wasgetting the 'swap' from a customer. It was Jessie's preoccupationwith her own perplexities, no doubt, that delayed the unveiling of Mr. Hoopdriver all through Saturday and Sunday. Once or twice, however, there were incidents that put him about terribly--even questions thatsavoured of suspicion. 

On Sunday night, for no conceivable reason, an unwonted wakefulnesscame upon him. Unaccountably he realised he was a contemptible liar, All through the small hours of Monday he reviewed the tale of hisfalsehoods, and when he tried to turn his mind from that, the financialproblem suddenly rose upon him. He heard two o'clock strike, and three. It is odd how unhappy some of us are at times, when we are at ourhappiest. 

XXXIV. 

"Good morning, Madam, " said Hoopdriver, as Jessie came into thebreakfast room of the Golden Pheasant on Monday morning, and he smiled, bowed, rubbed his hands together, and pulled out a chair for her, andrubbed his hands again. 

She stopped abruptly, with a puzzled expression on her face. "Where HAVEI seen that before?" she said. 

"The chair?" said Hoopdriver, flushing. 

"No--the attitude. "

She came forward and shook hands with him, looking the while curiouslyinto his face. "And--Madam?"

"It's a habit, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, guiltily. "A bad habit. Callingladies Madam. You must put it down to our colonial roughness. Out thereup country--y'know--the ladies--so rare--we call 'em all Madam. "

"You HAVE some funny habits, brother Chris, " said Jessie. "Before yousell your diamond shares and go into society, as you say, and standfor Parliament--What a fine thing it is to be a man!--you must cureyourself. That habit of bowing as you do, and rubbing your hands, andlooking expectant. "

"It's a habit. "

"I know. But I don't think it a good one. You don't mind my tellingyou?"

"Not a bit. I'm grateful. "

"I'm blessed or afflicted with a trick of observation, " said Jessie, looking at the breakfast table. Mr. Hoopdriver put his hand to hismoustache and then, thinking this might be another habit, checked hisarm and stuck his hand into his pocket. He felt juiced awkward, to usehis private formula. Jessie's eye wandered to the armchair, where apiece of binding was loose, and, possibly to carry out her theory of anobservant disposition, she turned and asked him for a pin. 

Mr. Hoopdriver's hand fluttered instinctively to his lappel, and there, planted by habit, were a couple of stray pins he had impounded. 

"What an odd place to put pins!" exclaimed Jessie, taking it. 

"It's 'andy, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "I saw a chap in a shop do it once. "

"You must have a careful disposition, " she said, over her shoulder, kneeling down to the chair. 

"In the centre of Africa--up country, that is--one learns to valuepins, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, after a perceptible pause. "There weren'tover many pins in Africa. They don't lie about on the ground there. " Hisface was now in a fine, red glow. Where would the draper break out next?He thrust his hands into his coat pockets, then took one out again, furtively removed the second pin and dropped it behind him gently. Itfell with a loud 'ping' on the fender. Happily she made no remark, beingpreoccupied with the binding of the chair. 

Mr. Hoopdriver, instead of sitting down, went up to the table and stoodagainst it, with his finger-tips upon the cloth. They were keepingbreakfast a tremendous time. He took up his rolled serviette lookedclosely and scrutinisingly at the ring, then put his hand under the foldof the napkin and examined the texture, and put the thing down again. Then he had a vague impulse to finger his hollow wisdom tooth--happilychecked. He suddenly discovered he was standing as if the table was acounter, and sat down forthwith. He drummed with his hand on the table. He felt dreadfully hot and self-conscious. 

"Breakfast is late, " said Jessie, standing up. 

"Isn't it?"

Conversation was slack. Jessie wanted to know the distance to Ringwood. Then silence fell again. 

Mr. Hoopdriver, very uncomfortable and studying an easy bearing, lookedagain at the breakfast things and then idly lifted the corner of thetablecloth on the ends of his fingers, and regarded it. "Fifteen three, "he thought, privately. 

"Why do you do that?" said Jessie. 

"WHAT?" said Hoopdriver, dropping the tablecloth convulsively. 

"Look at the cloth like that. I saw you do it yesterday, too. "

Mr. Hoopdriver's face became quite a bright red. He began pulling hismoustache nervously. "I know, " he said. "I know. It's a queer habit, I know. But out there, you know, there's native servants, you know, and--it's a queer thing to talk about--but one has to look at things tosee, don't y'know, whether they're quite clean or not. It's got to be ahabit. "

"How odd!" said Jessie. 

"Isn't it?" mumbled Hoopdriver. 

"If I were a Sherlock Holmes, " said Jessie, "I suppose I could have toldyou were a colonial from little things like that. But anyhow, I guessedit, didn't I?"

"Yes, " said Hoopdriver, in a melancholy tone, "you guessed it. "

Why not seize the opportunity for a neat confession, and add, "unhappilyin this case you guessed wrong. " Did she suspect? Then, at thepsychological moment, the girl bumped the door open with her tray andbrought in the coffee and scrambled eggs. 

"I am rather lucky with my intuitions, sometimes, " said Jessie. 

Remorse that had been accumulating in his mind for two days surged tothe top of his mind. What a shabby liar he was!

And, besides, he must sooner or later, inevitably, give himself away. 

XXXV. 

Mr. Hoopdriver helped the eggs and then, instead of beginning, sat withhis cheek on his hand, watching Jessie pour out the coffee. His earswere a bright red, and his eyes bright. He took his coffee cup clumsily, cleared his throat, suddenly leant back in his chair, and thrust hishands deep into his pockets. "I'll do it, " he said aloud. 

"Do what?" said Jessie, looking up in surprise over the coffee pot. Shewas just beginning her scrambled egg. 

"Own up. "

"Own what?"

"Miss Milton--I'm a liar. " He put his head on one side and regarded herwith a frown of tremendous resolution. Then in measured accents, and moving his head slowly from side to side, he announced, "Ay'm aderaper. "

"You're a draper? I thought--"

"You thought wrong. But it's bound to come up. Pins, attitude, habits--It's plain enough. 

"I'm a draper's assistant let out for a ten-days holiday. Jest adraper's assistant. Not much, is it? A counter-jumper. "

"A draper's assistant isn't a position to be ashamed of, " she said, recovering, and not quite understanding yet what this all meant. 

"Yes, it is, " he said, "for a man, in this country now. To be justanother man's hand, as I am. To have to wear what clothes you are told, and go to church to please customers, and work--There's no other kind ofmen stand such hours. A drunken bricklayer's a king to it. "

"But why are you telling me this now?"

"It's important you should know at once. "

"But, Mr. Benson--"

"That isn't all. If you don't mind my speaking about myself a bit, there's a few things I'd like to tell you. I can't go on deceiving you. My name's not Benson. WHY I told you Benson, I DON'T know. Except thatI'm a kind of fool. Well--I wanted somehow to seem more than I was. Myname's Hoopdriver. "

"Yes?"

"And that about South Africa--and that lion. "

"Well?"

"Lies. "

"Lies!"

"And the discovery of diamonds on the ostrich farm. Lies too. And all thereminiscences of the giraffes--lies too. I never rode on no giraffes. I'd be afraid. "

He looked at her with a kind of sullen satisfaction. He had eased hisconscience, anyhow. She regarded him in infinite perplexity. This was anew side altogether to the man. "But WHY, " she began. 

"Why did I tell you such things? _I_ don't know. Silly sort of chap, Iexpect. I suppose I wanted to impress you. But somehow, now, I want youto know the truth. "

Silence. Breakfast untouched. "I thought I'd tell you, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "I suppose it's snobbishness and all that kind of thing, asmuch as anything. I lay awake pretty near all last night thinking aboutmyself; thinking what a got-up imitation of a man I was, and all that. "

"And you haven't any diamond shares, and you are not going intoParliament, and you're not--"

"All Lies, " said Hoopdriver, in a sepulchral voice. "Lies from beginningto end. 'Ow I came to tell 'em I DON'T know. "

She stared at him blankly. 

"I never set eyes on Africa in my life, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, completingthe confession. Then he pulled his right hand from his pocket, and withthe nonchalance of one to whom the bitterness of death is passed, beganto drink his coffee. 

"It's a little surprising, " began Jessie, vaguely. 

"Think it over, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "I'm sorry from the bottom of myheart. "

And then breakfast proceeded in silence. Jessie ate very little, andseemed lost in thought. Mr. Hoopdriver was so overcome by contrition andanxiety that he consumed an extraordinarily large breakfast out of purenervousness, and ate his scrambled eggs for the most part with thespoon that belonged properly to the marmalade. His eyes were gloomilydowncast. She glanced at him through her eyelashes. Once or twice shestruggled with laughter, once or twice she seemed to be indignant. 

"I don't know what to think, " she said at last. "I don't know whatto make of you--brother Chris. I thought, do you know? that you wereperfectly honest. And somehow--"

"Well?"

"I think so still. "

"Honest--with all those lies!"

"I wonder. "

"I don't, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "I'm fair ashamed of myself. Butanyhow--I've stopped deceiving you. "

"I THOUGHT, " said the Young Lady in Grey, "that story of the lion--"

"Lord!" said Mr. Hoopdriver. "Don't remind me of THAT. "

"I thought, somehow, I FELT, that the things you said didn't ring quitetrue. " She suddenly broke out in laughter, at the expression of hisface. "Of COURSE you are honest, " she said. "How could I ever doubt it?As if _I_ had never pretended! I see it all now. "

Abruptly she rose, and extended her hand across the breakfast things. Helooked at her doubtfully, and saw the dancing friendliness in her eyes. He scarcely understood at first. He rose, holding the marmalade spoon, and took her proffered hand with abject humility. "Lord, " he broke out, "if you aren't enough--but there!"

"I see it all now. " A brilliant inspiration had suddenly obscured herhumour. She sat down suddenly, and he sat down too. "You did it, "she said, "because you wanted to help me. And you thought I was tooConventional to take help from one I might think my social inferior. "

"That was partly it, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"How you misunderstood me!" she said. 

"You don't mind?"

"It was noble of you. But I am sorry, " she said, "you should think melikely to be ashamed of you because you follow a decent trade. "

"I didn't know at first, you see, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

And he submitted meekly to a restoration of his self-respect. He wasas useful a citizen as could be, --it was proposed and carried, --andhis lying was of the noblest. And so the breakfast concluded much morehappily than his brightest expectation, and they rode out of ruddylittle Blandford as though no shadow of any sort had come between them. 

XXXVI. 

As they were sitting by the roadside among the pine trees half-way up astretch of hill between Wimborne and Ringwood, however, Mr. Hoopdriverreopened the question of his worldly position. 

"Ju think, " he began abruptly, removing a meditative cigarette from hismouth, "that a draper's shopman IS a decent citizen?"

"Why not?"

"When he puts people off with what they don't quite want, for instance?"

"Need he do that?"

"Salesmanship, " said Hoopdriver. "Wouldn't get a crib if hedidn't. --It's no good your arguing. It's not a particularly honest nor aparticularly useful trade; it's not very high up; there's no freedomand no leisure--seven to eight-thirty every day in the week; don't leavemuch edge to live on, does it?--real workmen laugh at us and educatedchaps like bank clerks and solicitors' clerks look down on us. Youlook respectable outside, and inside you are packed in dormitories likeconvicts, fed on bread and butter and bullied like slaves. You'rejust superior enough to feel that you're not superior. Without capitalthere's no prospects; one draper in a hundred don't even earn enough tomarry on; and if he DOES marry, his G. V. Can just use him to black bootsif he likes, and he daren't put his back up. That's drapery! And youtell me to be contented. Would YOU be contented if you was a shop girl?"

She did not answer. She looked at him with distress in her brown eyes, and he remained gloomily in possession of the field. 

Presently he spoke. "I've been thinking, " he said, and stopped. 

She turned her face, resting her cheek on the palm of her hand. Therewas a light in her eyes that made the expression of them tender. Mr. Hoopdriver had not looked in her face while he had talked. He hadregarded the grass, and pointed his remarks with redknuckled hands heldopen and palms upwards. Now they hung limply over his knees. 

"Well?" she said. 

"I was thinking it this morning, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"Yes?"

"Of course it's silly. " "Well?"

"It's like this. I'm twenty-three, about. I had my schooling all rightto fifteen, say. Well, that leaves me eight years behind. --Is it toolate? I wasn't so backward. I did algebra, and Latin up to auxiliaryverbs, and French genders. I got a kind of grounding. "

"And now you mean, should you go on working?"

"Yes, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "That's it. You can't do much at draperywithout capital, you know. But if I could get really educated. I'vethought sometimes... "

"Why not?" said the Young Lady in Grey. 

Mr. Hoopdriver was surprised to see it in that light. "You think?" hesaid. "Of course. You are a Man. You are free--" She warmed. "I wish Iwere you to have the chance of that struggle. "

"Am I Man ENOUGH?" said Mr. Hoopdriver aloud, but addressing himself. "There's that eight years, " he said to her. 

"You can make it up. What you call educated men--They're not going on. You can catch them. They are quite satisfied. Playing golf, and thinkingof clever things to say to women like my stepmother, and dining out. You're in front of them already in one thing. They think they knoweverything. You don't. And they know such little things. "

"Lord!" said Mr. Hoopdriver. "How you encourage a fellow!"

"If I could only help you, " she said, and left an eloquent hiatus. Hebecame pensive again. 

"It's pretty evident you don't think much of a draper, " he saidabruptly. 

Another interval. "Hundreds of men, " she said, "have come from the verylowest ranks of life. There was Burns, a ploughman; and Hugh Miller, astonemason; and plenty of others. Dodsley was a footman--"

"But drapers! We're too sort of shabby genteel to rise. Our coats andcuffs might get crumpled--"

"Wasn't there a Clarke who wrote theology? He was a draper. "

"There was one started a sewing cotton, the only one I ever heard tellof. "

"Have you ever read 'Hearts Insurgent'?"

"Never, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. He did not wait for her context, butsuddenly broke out with an account of his literary requirements. "Thefact is--I've read precious little. One don't get much of a chance, situated as I am. We have a library at business, and I've gone throughthat. Most Besant I've read, and a lot of Mrs. Braddon's and RiderHaggard and Marie Corelli--and, well--a Ouida or so. They're goodstories, of course, and first-class writers, but they didn't seem tohave much to do with me. But there's heaps of books one hears talkedabout, I HAVEN'T read. "

"Don't you read any other books but novels?"

"Scarcely ever. One gets tired after business, and you can't get thebooks. I have been to some extension lectures, of course, 'LizabethanDramatists, ' it was, but it seemed a little high-flown, you know. And Iwent and did wood-carving at the same place. But it didn't seem leadingnowhere, and I cut my thumb and chucked it. "

He made a depressing spectacle, with his face anxious and his handslimp. "It makes me sick, " he said, "to think how I've been fooled with. My old schoolmaster ought to have a juiced HIDING. He's a thief. Hepretended to undertake to make a man of me, and be's stole twenty-threeyears of my life, filled me up with scraps and sweepings. Here I am! Idon't KNOW anything, and I can't DO anything, and all the learning timeis over. "

"Is it?" she said; but he did not seem to hear her. "My o' people didn'tknow any better, and went and paid thirty pounds premium--thirty poundsdown to have me made THIS. The G. V. Promised to teach me the trade, andhe never taught me anything but to be a Hand. It's the way they do withdraper's apprentices. If every swindler was locked up--well, you'd havenowhere to buy tape and cotton. It's all very well to bring up Burns andthose chaps, but I'm not that make. Yet I'm not such muck that I mightnot have been better--with teaching. I wonder what the chaps who sneerand laugh at such as me would be if they'd been fooled about as I'vebeen. At twenty-three--it's a long start. "

He looked up with a wintry smile, a sadder and wiser Hoopdriver indeedthan him of the glorious imaginings. "It's YOU done this, " he said. "You're real. And it sets me thinking what I really am, and what I mighthave been. Suppose it was all different--"

"MAKE it different. "

"How?"

"WORK. Stop playing at life. Face it like a man. "

"Ah!" said Hoopdriver, glancing at her out of the corners of his eyes. "And even then--"

"No! It's not much good. I'm beginning too late. "

And there, in blankly thoughtful silence, that conversation ended. 

XXXVII. IN THE NEW FOREST

At Ringwood they lunched, and Jessie met with a disappointment. Therewas no letter for her at the post office. Opposite the hotel, TheChequered Career, was a machine shop with a conspicuously second-handMarlborough Club tandem tricycle displayed in the window, together withthe announcement that bicycles and tricycles were on hire within. Theestablishment was impressed on Mr. Hoopdriver's mind by the proprietor'saction in coming across the road and narrowly inspecting their machines. His action revived a number of disagreeable impressions, but, happily, came to nothing. While they were still lunching, a tall clergyman, with a heated face, entered the room and sat down at the table next totheirs. He was in a kind of holiday costume; that is to say, he had amore than usually high collar, fastened behind and rather the worse forthe weather, and his long-tail coat had been replaced by a black jacketof quite remarkable brevity. He had faded brown shoes on his feet, histrouser legs were grey with dust, and he wore a hat of piebald strawin the place of the customary soft felt. He was evidently sociallyinclined. 

"A most charming day, sir, " he said, in a ringing tenor. 

"Charming, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, over a portion of pie. 

"You are, I perceive, cycling through this delightful country, " said theclergyman. 

"Touring, " explained Mr. Hoopdriver. "I can imagine that, with aproperly oiled machine, there can be no easier nor pleasanter way ofseeing the country. "

"No, " said Mr. Hoopdriver; "it isn't half a bad way of getting about. "

"For a young and newly married couple, a tandem bicycle must be, Ishould imagine, a delightful bond. "

"Quite so, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, reddening a little. 

"Do you ride a tandem?"

"No--we're separate, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"The motion through the air is indisputably of a very exhilaratingdescription. " With that decision, the clergyman turned to give hisorders to the attendant, in a firm, authoritative voice, for a cup oftea, two gelatine lozenges, bread and butter, salad, and pie to follow. "The gelatine lozenges I must have. I require them to precipitate thetannin in my tea, " he remarked to the room at large, and folding hishands, remained for some time with his chin thereon, staring fixedly ata little picture over Mr. Hoopdriver's head. 

"I myself am a cyclist, " said the clergyman, descending suddenly uponMr. Hoopdriver. 

"Indeed!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, attacking the moustache. "What machine, may I ask?"

"I have recently become possessed of a tricycle. A bicycle is, Iregret to say, considered too--how shall I put it?--flippant by myparishioners. So I have a tricycle. I have just been hauling it hither. "

"Hauling!" said Jessie, surprised. 

"With a shoe lace. And partly carrying it on my back. "

The pause was unexpected. Jessie had some trouble with a crumb. Mr. Hoopdriver's face passed through several phases of surprise. Then he sawthe explanation. "Had an accident?"

"I can hardly call it an accident. The wheels suddenly refused to goround. I found myself about five miles from here with an absolutelyimmobile machine. "

"Ow!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, trying to seem intelligent, and Jessieglanced at this insane person. 

"It appears, " said the clergyman, satisfied with the effect he hadcreated, "that my man carefully washed out the bearings with paraffin, and let the machine dry without oiling it again. The consequence wasthat they became heated to a considerable temperature and jammed. Evenat the outset the machine ran stiffly as well as noisily, and I, beinginclined to ascribe this stiffness to my own lassitude, merely redoubledmy exertions. "

"'Ot work all round, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"You could scarcely put it more appropriately. It is my rule of life todo whatever I find to do with all my might. I believe, indeed, that thebearings became red hot. Finally one of the wheels jammed together. Aside wheel it was, so that its stoppage necessitated an inversion of theentire apparatus, --an inversion in which I participated. "

"Meaning, that you went over?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, suddenly muchamused. 

"Precisely. And not brooking my defeat, I suffered repeatedly. You mayunderstand, perhaps, a natural impatience. I expostulated--playfully, of course. Happily the road was not overlooked. Finally, the entireapparatus became rigid, and I abandoned the unequal contest. For allpractical purposes the tricycle was no better than a heavy chair withoutcastors. It was a case of hauling or carrying. "

The clergyman's nutriment appeared in the doorway. 

"Five miles, " said the clergyman. He began at once to eat bread andbutter vigorously. "Happily, " he said, "I am an eupeptic, energetic sortof person on principle. I would all men were likewise. "

"It's the best way, " agreed Mr. Hoopdriver, and the conversation gaveprecedence to bread and butter. 

"Gelatine, " said the clergyman, presently, stirring his teathoughtfully, "precipitates the tannin in one's tea and renders it easyof digestion. "

"That's a useful sort of thing to know, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"You are altogether welcome, " said the clergyman, biting generously attwo pieces of bread and butter folded together. 

In the afternoon our two wanderers rode on at an easy pace towardsStoney Cross. Conversation languished, the topic of South Africa beingin abeyance. Mr. Hoopdriver was silenced by disagreeable thoughts. Hehad changed the last sovereign at Ringwood. The fact had come upon himsuddenly. Now too late he was reflecting upon his resources. There wastwenty pounds or more in the post office savings bank in Putney, but hisbook was locked up in his box at the Antrobus establishment. Else thisinfatuated man would certainly have surreptitiously withdrawn the entiresum in order to prolong these journeyings even for a few days. As itwas, the shadow of the end fell across his happiness. Strangely enough, in spite of his anxiety and the morning's collapse, he was still in acurious emotional state that was certainly not misery. He was forgettinghis imaginings and posings, forgetting himself altogether in his growingappreciation of his companion. The most tangible trouble in his mind wasthe necessity of breaking the matter to her. 

A long stretch up hill tired them long before Stoney Cross was reached, and they dismounted and sat under the shade of a little oak tree. Nearthe crest the road looped on itself, so that, looking back, it slopedbelow them up to the right and then came towards them. About them grewa rich heather with stunted oaks on the edge of a deep ditch along theroadside, and this road was sandy; below the steepness of the hill, however, it was grey and barred with shadows, for there the treesclustered thick and tall. Mr. Hoopdriver fumbled clumsily with hiscigarettes. 

"There's a thing I got to tell you, " he said, trying to be perfectlycalm. 

"Yes?" she said. 

"I'd like to jest discuss your plans a bit, y'know. "

"I'm very unsettled, " said Jessie. "You are thinking of writing Books?"

"Or doing journalism, or teaching, or something like that. "

"And keeping yourself independent of your stepmother?"

"Yes. "

"How long'd it take now, to get anything of that sort to do?"

"I don't know at all. I believe there are a great many women journalistsand sanitary inspectors, and black-and-white artists. But I suppose ittakes time. Women, you know, edit most papers nowadays, George Egertonsays. I ought, I suppose, to communicate with a literary agent. "

"Of course, " said Hoopdriver, "it's very suitable work. Not being heavylike the drapery. "

"There's heavy brain labour, you must remember. "

"That wouldn't hurt YOU, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, turning a compliment. 

"It's like this, " he said, ending a pause. "It's a juiced nuisancealluding to these matters, but--we got very little more money. "

He perceived that Jessie started, though he did not look at her. "I wascounting, of course, on your friend's writing and your being able totake some action to-day. " 'Take some action' was a phrase he had learntat his last 'swop. '

"Money, " said Jessie. "I didn't think of money. "

"Hullo! Here's a tandem bicycle, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, abruptly, andpointing with his cigarette. 

She looked, and saw two little figures emerging from among the trees atthe foot of the slope. The riders were bowed sternly over their work andmade a gallant but unsuccessful attempt to take the rise. The machinewas evidently too highly geared for hill climbing, and presently therearmost rider rose on his saddle and hopped off, leaving his companionto any fate he found proper. The foremost rider was a man unused tosuch machines and apparently undecided how to dismount. He wabbled afew yards up the hill with a long tail of machine wabbling behindhim. Finally, he made an attempt to jump off as one does off a singlebicycle, hit his boot against the backbone, and collapsed heavily, falling on his shoulder. 

She stood up. "Dear me!" she said. "I hope he isn't hurt. "

The second rider went to the assistance of the fallen man. 

Hoopdriver stood up, too. The lank, shaky machine was lifted up andwheeled out of the way, and then the fallen rider, being assisted, gotup slowly and stood rubbing his arm. No serious injury seemed to bedone to the man, and the couple presently turned their attention to themachine by the roadside. They were not in cycling clothes Hoopdriverobserved. One wore the grotesque raiment for which the Cockney discoveryof the game of golf seems indirectly blamable. Even at this distance theflopping flatness of his cap, the bright brown leather at the top of hiscalves, and the chequering of his stockings were perceptible. The other, the rear rider, was a slender little man in grey. 

"Amatoors, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

Jessie stood staring, and a veil of thought dropped over her eyes. Sheno longer regarded the two men who were now tinkering at the machinedown below there. 

"How much have you?" she said. 

He thrust his right hand into his pocket and produced six coins, countedthem with his left index finger, and held them out to her. "Thirteenfour half, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "Every penny. "

"I have half a sovereign, " she said. "Our bill wherever we stop--" Thehiatus was more eloquent than many words. 

"I never thought of money coming in to stop us like this, " said Jessie. 

"It's a juiced nuisance. "

"Money, " said Jessie. "Is it possible--Surely! Conventionality! May onlypeople of means--Live their own Lives? I never thought ... "

Pause. 

"Here's some more cyclists coming, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

The two men were both busy with their bicycle still, but now from amongthe trees emerged the massive bulk of a 'Marlborough Club' tandem, ridden by a slender woman in grey and a burly man in a Norfolk jacket. Following close upon this came lank black figure in a piebald straw hat, riding a tricycle of antiquated pattern with two large wheels in front. The man in grey remained bowed over the bicycle, with his stomachresting on the saddle, but his companion stood up and addressed someremark to the tricycle riders. Then it seemed as if he pointed up hillto where Mr. Hoopdriver and his companion stood side by side. A stillodder thing followed; the lady in grey took out her handkerchief, appeared to wave it for a moment, and then at a hasty motion from hercompanion the white signal vanished. 

"Surely, " said Jessie, peering under her hand. "It's never--"

The tandem tricycle began to ascend the hill, quartering elaboratelyfrom side to side to ease the ascent. It was evident, from his heavingshoulders and depressed head, that the burly gentleman was exertinghimself. The clerical person on the tricycle assumed the shape of a noteof interrogation. Then on the heels of this procession came a dogcartdriven by a man in a billycock hat and containing a lady in dark green. 

"Looks like some sort of excursion, " said Hoopdriver. 

Jessie did not answer. She was still peering under her hand. "Surely, "she said. 

The clergyman's efforts were becoming convulsive. With a curious jerkingmotion, the tricycle he rode twisted round upon itself, and he partlydismounted and partly fell off. He turned his machine up hill againimmediately and began to wheel it. Then the burly gentleman dismounted, and with a courtly attentiveness assisted the lady in grey to alight. There was some little difference of opinion as to assistance, sheso clearly wished to help push. Finally she gave in, and the burlygentleman began impelling the machine up hill by his own unaidedstrength. His face made a dot of brilliant colour among the greys andgreens at the foot of the hill. The tandem bicycle was now, it seems, repaired, and this joined the tail of the procession, its riders walkingbehind the dogcart, from which the lady in green and the driver had nowdescended. 

"Mr. Hoopdriver, " said Jessie. "Those people--I'm almost sure--"

"Lord!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, reading the rest in her face, and he turnedto pick up his machine at once. Then he dropped it and assisted her tomount. 

At the sight of Jessie mounting against the sky line the people comingup the hill suddenly became excited and ended Jessie's doubts at once. Two handkerchiefs waved, and some one shouted. The riders of the tandembicycle began to run it up hill, past the other vehicles. But our youngpeople did not wait for further developments of the pursuit. In anothermoment they were out of sight, riding hard down a steady incline towardsStoney Cross. 

Before they had dropped among the trees out of sight of the hill brow, Jessie looked back and saw the tandem rising over the crest, with itsrear rider just tumbling into the saddle. "They're coming, " she said, and bent her head over her handles in true professional style. 

They whirled down into the valley, over a white bridge, and saw aheadof them a number of shaggy little ponies frisking in the roadway. Involuntarily they slackened. "Shoo!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, and theponies kicked up their heels derisively. At that Mr. Hoopdriver lost histemper and charged at them, narrowly missed one, and sent them jumpingthe ditch into the bracken under the trees, leaving the way clear forJessie. 

Then the road rose quietly but persistently; the treadles grew heavy, and Mr. Hoopdriver's breath sounded like a saw. The tandem appeared, making frightful exertions, at the foot, while the chase was stillclimbing. Then, thank Heaven! a crest and a stretch of up and down road, whose only disadvantage was its pitiless exposure to the afternoon sun. The tandem apparently dismounted at the hill, and did not appear againstthe hot blue sky until they were already near some trees and a good mileaway. 

"We're gaining, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, with a little Niagara ofperspiration dropping from brow to cheek. "That hill--"

But that was their only gleam of success. They were both nearly spent. Hoopdriver, indeed, was quite spent, and only a feeling of shameprolonged the liquidation of his bankrupt physique. From that point thetandem grained upon them steadily. At the Rufus Stone, it was scarcelya hundred yards behind. Then one desperate spurt, and they foundthemselves upon a steady downhill stretch among thick pine woods. Downhill nothing can beat a highly geared tandem bicycle. AutomaticallyMr. Hoopdriver put up his feet, and Jessie slackened her pace. Inanother moment they heard the swish of the fat pneumatics behind them, and the tandem passed Hoopdriver and drew alongside Jessie. Hoopdriverfelt a mad impulse to collide with this abominable machine as itpassed him. His only consolation was to notice that its riders, ridingviolently, were quite as dishevelled as himself and smothered in sandywhite dust. 

Abruptly Jessie stopped and dismounted, and the tandem riders shotpanting past them downhill. "Brake, " said Dangle, who was riding behind, and stood up on the pedals. For a moment the velocity of the thingincreased, and then they saw the dust fly from the brake, as it camedown on the front tire. Dangle's right leg floundered in the air as hecame off in the road. The tandem wobbled. "Hold it!" cried Phipps overhis shoulder, going on downhill. "I can't get off if you don't hold it. "He put on the brake until the machine stopped almost dead, and thenfeeling unstable began to pedal again. Dangle shouted after him. "Putout your foot, man, " said Dangle. 

In this way the tandem riders were carried a good hundred yards or morebeyond their quarry. Then Phipps realized his possibilities, slacked upwith the brake, and let the thing go over sideways, dropping on to hisright foot. With his left leg still over the saddle, and stillholding the handles, he looked over his shoulder and began addressinguncomplimentary remarks to Dangle. "You only think of yourself, " saidPhipps, with a florid face. 

"They have forgotten us, " said Jessie, turning her machine. 

"There was a road at the top of the hill--to Lyndhurst, " saidHoopdriver, following her example. 

"It's no good. There's the money. We must give it up. But let us go backto that hotel at Rufus Stone. I don't see why we should be led captive. "

So to the consternation of the tandem riders, Jessie and her companionmounted and rode quietly back up the hill again. As they dismounted atthe hotel entrance, the tandem overtook them, and immediately afterwardsthe dogcart came into view in pursuit. Dangle jumped off. 

"Miss Milton, I believe, " said Dangle, panting and raising a damp capfrom his wet and matted hair. 

"I SAY, " said Phipps, receding involuntarily. "Don't go doing it again, Dangle. HELP a chap. "

"One minute, " said Dangle, and ran after his colleague. 

Jessie leant her machine against the wall, and went into the hotelentrance. Hoopdriver remained in the hotel entrance, limp but defiant. 

XXXVIII. AT THE RUFUS STONE

He folded his arms as Dangle and Phipps returned towards him. Phippswas abashed by his inability to cope with the tandem, which he was nowwheeling, but Dangle was inclined to be quarrelsome. "Miss Milton?" hesaid briefly. 

Mr. Hoopdriver bowed over his folded arms. 

"Miss Milton within?" said Dangle. 

"AND not to be disturved, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"You are a scoundrel, sir, " said Mr. Dangle. 

"Et your service, " said Mr. Hoopdriver. "She awaits 'er stepmother, sir. "

Mr. Dangle hesitated. "She will be here immediately, " he said. "Here isher friend, Miss Mergle. "

Mr. Hoopdriver unfolded his arms slowly, and, with an air of immensecalm, thrust his hands into his breeches pockets. Then with one of thosefatal hesitations of his, it occurred to him that this attitude wasmerely vulgarly defiant he withdrew both, returned one and pulled atthe insufficient moustache with the other. Miss Mergle caught him inconfusion. "Is this the man?" she said to Dangle, and forthwith, "HowDARE you, sir? How dare you face me? That poor girl!"

"You will permit me to observe, " began Mr. Hoopdriver, with a splendiddrawl, seeing himself, for the first time in all this business, as aromantic villain. 

"Ugh, " said Miss Mergle, unexpectedly striking him about the midriffwith her extended palms, and sending him staggering backward into thehall of the hotel. 

"Let me pass, " said Miss Mergle, in towering indignation. "How dareyou resist my passage?" and so swept by him and into the dining-room, wherein Jessie had sought refuge. 

As Mr. Hoopdriver struggled for equilibrium with the umbrella-stand, Dangle and Phipps, roused from their inertia by Miss Mergle's activity, came in upon her heels, Phipps leading. "How dare you prevent that ladypassing?" said Phipps. 

Mr. Hoopdriver looked obstinate, and, to Dangle's sense, dangerous, buthe made no answer. A waiter in full bloom appeared at the end of thepassage, guardant. "It is men of your stamp, sir, " said Phipps, "whodiscredit manhood. "

Mr. Hoopdriver thrust his hands into his pockets. "Who the juice areyou?" shouted Mr. Hoopdriver, fiercely. 

"Who are YOU, sir?" retorted Phipps. "Who are you? That's the question. What are YOU, and what are you doing, wandering at large with a younglady under age?"

"Don't speak to him, " said Dangle. 

"I'm not a-going to tell all my secrets to any one who comes at me, "said Hoopdriver. "Not Likely. " And added fiercely, "And that I tell you, sir. "

He and Phipps stood, legs apart and both looking exceedingly fierce atone another, and Heaven alone knows what might not have happened, if thelong clergyman had not appeared in the doorway, heated but deliberate. "Petticoated anachronism, " said the long clergyman in the doorway, apparently still suffering from the antiquated prejudice that demanded athird wheel and a black coat from a clerical rider. He looked at Phippsand Hoopdriver for a moment, then extending his hand towards the latter, he waved it up and down three times, saying, "Tchak, tchak, tchak, " verydeliberately as he did so. Then with a concluding "Ugh!" and a gestureof repugnance he passed on into the dining-room from which the voiceof Miss Mergle was distinctly audible remarking that the weather wasextremely hot even for the time of year. 

This expression of extreme disapprobation had a very demoralizing effectupon Hoopdriver, a demoralization that was immediately completed by theadvent of the massive Widgery. 

"Is this the man?" said Widgery very grimly, and producing a specialvoice for the occasion from somewhere deep in his neck. 

"Don't hurt him!" said Mrs. Milton, with clasped hands. "However muchwrong he has done her--No violence!"

"'Ow many more of you?" said Hoopdriver, at bay before the umbrellastand. "Where is she? What has he done with her?" said Mrs. Milton. 

"I'm not going to stand here and be insulted by a lot of strangers, "said Mr. Hoopdriver. "So you needn't think it. "

"Please don't worry, Mr. Hoopdriver, " said Jessie, suddenly appearing inthe door of the dining-room. "I'm here, mother. " Her face was white. 

Mrs. Milton said something about her child, and made an emotional chargeat Jessie. The embrace vanished into the dining-room. Widgery moved asif to follow, and hesitated. "You'd better make yourself scarce, " hesaid to Mr. Hoopdriver. 

"I shan't do anything of the kind, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, with a catchingof the breath. "I'm here defending that young lady. "

"You've done her enough mischief, I should think, " said Widgery, suddenly walking towards the dining-room, and closing the door behindhim, leaving Dangle and Phipps with Hoopdriver. 

"Clear!" said Phipps, threateningly. 

"I shall go and sit out in the garden, " said Mr. Hoopdriver, withdignity. "There I shall remain. "

"Don't make a row with him, " said Dangle. 

And Mr. Hoopdriver retired, unassaulted, in almost sobbing dignity. 

XXXIX. 

So here is the world with us again, and our sentimental excursionis over. In the front of the Rufus Stone Hotel conceive a remarkablecollection of wheeled instruments, watched over by Dangle and Phipps ingrave and stately attitudes, and by the driver of a stylish dogcart fromRingwood. In the garden behind, in an attitude of nervous prostration, Mr. Hoopdriver was seated on a rustic seat. Through the open window ofa private sitting-room came a murmur of voices, as of men and women inconference. Occasionally something that might have been a girlish sob. 

"I fail to see what status Widgery has, " says Dangle, "thrusting himselfin there. "

"He takes too much upon himself, " said Phipps. 

"I've been noticing little things, yesterday and to-day, " said Dangle, and stopped. 

"They went to the cathedral together in the afternoon. "

"Financially it would be a good thing for her, of course, " said Dangle, with a gloomy magnanimity. 

He felt drawn to Phipps now by the common trouble, in spite of the man'schequered legs. "Financially it wouldn't be half bad. "

"He's so dull and heavy, " said Phipps. 

Meanwhile, within, the clergyman had, by promptitude and dexterity, taken the chair and was opening the case against the unfortunate Jessie. I regret to have to say that my heroine had been appalled by the visiblearray of public opinion against her excursion, to the pitch of tears. She was sitting with flushed cheeks and swimming eyes at the end of thetable opposite to the clergyman. She held her handkerchief crumpled upin her extended hand. Mrs. Milton sat as near to her as possible, and occasionally made little dabs with her hand at Jessie's hand, to indicate forgiveness. These advances were not reciprocated, whichtouched Widgery very much. The lady in green, Miss Mergle (B. A. ), sat on the opposite side near the clergyman. She was the strong-mindedschoolmistress to whom Jessie had written, and who had immediatelyprecipitated the pursuit upon her. She had picked up the clergyman inRingwood, and had told him everything forthwith, having met him once ata British Association meeting. He had immediately constituted himselfadministrator of the entire business. Widgery, having been foiled in anattempt to conduct the proceedings, stood with his legs wide apart infront of the fireplace ornament, and looked profound and sympathetic. Jessie's account of her adventures was a chary one and given amidstfrequent interruptions. She surprised herself by skilfully omitting anyallusion to the Bechamel episode. She completely exonerated Hoopdriverfrom the charge of being more than an accessory to her escapade. But public feeling was heavy against Hoopdriver. Her narrative wasinaccurate and sketchy, but happily the others were too anxious to passopinions to pin her down to particulars. At last they had all the factsthey would permit. 

"My dear young lady, " said the clergyman, "I can only ascribe thisextravagant and regrettable expedition of yours to the wildestmisconceptions of your place in the world and of your duties andresponsibilities. Even now, it seems to me, your present emotion is duenot so much to a real and sincere penitence for your disobedience andfolly as to a positive annoyance at our most fortunate interference--"

"Not that, " said Mrs. Milton, in a low tone. "Not that. "

"But WHY did she go off like this?" said Widgery. "That's what _I_ wantto know. "

Jessie made an attempt to speak, but Mrs. Milton said "Hush!" and theringing tenor of the clergyman rode triumphantly over the meeting. "Icannot understand this spirit of unrest that has seized upon the moreintelligent portion of the feminine community. You had a pleasant home, a most refined and intelligent lady in the position of your mother, tocherish and protect you--"

"If I HAD a mother, " gulped Jessie, succumbing to the obvious snare ofself-pity, and sobbing. 

"To cherish, protect, and advise you. And you must needs go out of itall alone into a strange world of unknown dangers-"

"I wanted to learn, " said Jessie. 

"You wanted to learn. May you never have anything to UNlearn. "

"AH!" from Mrs. Milton, very sadly. 

"It isn't fair for all of you to argue at me at once, " submitted Jessie, irrelevantly. 

"A world full of unknown dangers, " resumed the clergyman. "Your properplace was surely the natural surroundings that are part of you. Youhave been unduly influenced, it is only too apparent, by a class ofliterature which, with all due respect to distinguished authoressthat shall be nameless, I must call the New Woman Literature. In thatdeleterious ingredient of our book boxes--"

"I don't altogether agree with you there, " said Miss Mergle, throwingher head back and regarding him firmly through her spectacles, and Mr. Widgery coughed. 

"What HAS all this to do with me?" asked Jessie, availing herself of theinterruption. 

"The point is, " said Mrs. Milton, on her defence, "that in my books--"

"All I want to do, " said Jessie, "is to go about freely by myself. Girlsdo so in America. Why not here?"

"Social conditions are entirely different in America, " said Miss Mergle. "Here we respect Class Distinctions. "

"It's very unfortunate. What I want to know is, why I cannot go away fora holiday if I want to. "

"With a strange young man, socially your inferior, " said Widgery, andmade her flush by his tone. 

"Why not?" she said. "With anybody. "

"They don't do that, even in America, " said Miss Mergle. 

"My dear young lady, " said the clergyman, "the most elementaryprinciples of decorum--A day will come when you will better understandhow entirely subservient your ideas are to the very fundamentals ofour present civilisation, when you will better understand the harrowinganxiety you have given Mrs. Milton by this inexplicable flight of yours. We can only put things down at present, in charity, to your ignorance--"

"You have to consider the general body of opinion, too, " said Widgery. 

"Precisely, " said Miss Mergle. "There is no such thing as conduct in theabsolute. " "If once this most unfortunate business gets about, " said theclergyman, "it will do you infinite harm. "

"But I'VE done nothing wrong. Why should I be responsible for otherpeople's--"

"The world has no charity, " said Mrs. Milton. 

"For a girl, " said Jessie. "No. "

"Now do let us stop arguing, my dear young lady, and let us listento reason. Never mind how or why, this conduct of yours will do youinfinite harm, if once it is generally known. And not only that, it willcause infinite pain to those who care for you. But if you will return atonce to your home, causing it to be understood that you have been withfriends for these last few days--"

"Tell lies, " said Jessie. "Certainly not. Most certainly not. But Iunderstand that is how your absence is understood at present, and thereis no reason--"

Jessie's grip tightened on her handkerchief. "I won't go back, " shesaid, "to have it as I did before. I want a room of my own, what books Ineed to read, to be free to go out by myself alone, Teaching--"

"Anything, " said Mrs. Milton, "anything in reason. "

"But will you keep your promise?" said Jessie. 

"Surely you won't dictate to your mother!" said Widgery. 

"My stepmother! I don't want to dictate. I want definite promises now. "

"This is most unreasonable, " said the clergyman. "Very well, " saidJessie, swallowing a sob but with unusual resolution. "Then I won't goback. My life is being frittered away--"

"LET her have her way, " said Widgery. 

"A room then. All your Men. I'm not to come down and talk away half mydays--"

"My dear child, if only to save you, " said Mrs. Milton. "If you don'tkeep your promise--"

"Then I take it the matter is practically concluded, " said theclergyman. "And that you very properly submit to return to your properhome. And now, if I may offer a suggestion, it is that we taketea. Freed of its tannin, nothing, I think, is more refreshing andstimulating. "

"There's a train from Lyndhurst at thirteen minutes to six, " saidWidgery, unfolding a time table. "That gives us about half an hour orthree-quarters here--if a conveyance is obtainable, that is. "

"A gelatine lozenge dropped into the tea cup precipitates the tannin inthe form of tannate of gelatine, " said the clergyman to Miss Mergle, ina confidential bray. 

Jessie stood up, and saw through the window a depressed head andshoulders over the top of the back of a garden seat. She moved towardsthe door. "While you have tea, mother, " she said, "I must tell Mr. Hoopdriver of our arrangements. "

"Don't you think I--" began the clergyman. 

"No, " said Jessie, very rudely; "I don't. "

"But, Jessie, haven't you already--"

"You are already breaking the capitulation, " said Jessie. 

"Will you want the whole half hour?" said Widgery, at the bell. 

"Every minute, " said Jessie, in the doorway. "He's behaved very nobly tome. "

"There's tea, " said Widgery. 

"I've had tea. "

"He may not have behaved badly, " said the clergyman. "But he's certainlyan astonishingly weak person to let a wrong-headed young girl--"

Jessie closed the door into the garden. 

Meanwhile Mr. Hoopdriver made a sad figure in the sunlight outside. Itwas over, this wonderful excursion of his, so far as she was concerned, and with the swift blow that separated them, he realised all that thosedays had done for him. He tried to grasp the bearings of their position. Of course, they would take her away to those social altitudes of hers. She would become an inaccessible young lady again. Would they let himsay good-bye to her?

How extraordinary it had all been! He recalled the moment when he hadfirst seen her riding, with the sunlight behind her, along the riversideroad; he recalled that wonderful night at Bognor, remembering it as ifeverything had been done of his own initiative. "Brave, brave!" she hadcalled him. And afterwards, when she came down to him in the morning, kindly, quiet. But ought he to have persuaded her then to return toher home? He remembered some intention of the sort. Now these peoplesnatched her away from him as though he was scarcely fit to live in thesame world with her. No more he was! He felt he had presumed upon herworldly ignorance in travelling with her day after day. She wasso dainty, so delightful, so serene. He began to recapitulate herexpressions, the light of her eyes, the turn of her face.. . 

He wasn't good enough to walk in the same road with her. Nobody was. Suppose they let him say good-bye to her; what could he say? That? Butthey were sure not to let her talk to him alone; her mother would bethere as--what was it? Chaperone. He'd never once had a chance of sayingwhat he felt; indeed, it was only now he was beginning to realise whathe felt. Love I he wouldn't presume. It was worship. If only he couldhave one more chance. He must have one more chance, somewhere, somehow. Then he would pour out his soul to her eloquently. He felt eloquently, and words would come. He was dust under her feet... 

His meditation was interrupted by the click of a door handle, and Jessieappeared in the sunlight under the verandah. "Come away from here, " shesaid to Hoopdriver, as he rose to meet her. "I'm going home with them. We have to say good-bye. "

Mr. Hoopdriver winced, opened and shut his mouth, and rose without aword. 

XL. 

At first Jessie Milton and Mr. Hoopdriver walked away from the hotel insilence. He heard a catching in her breath and glanced at her and sawher ips pressed tight and a tear on her cheek. Her face was hot andbright. She was looking straight before her. He could think of nothingto say, and thrust his hands in his pockets and looked away from herintentionally. After a while she began to talk. They dealt disjointedlywith scenery first, and then with the means of self-education. She tookhis address at Antrobus's and promised to send him some books. Buteven with that it was spiritless, aching talk, Hoopdriver felt, forthe fighting mood was over. She seemed, to him, preoccupied with thememories of her late battle, and that appearance hurt him. 

"It's the end, " he whispered to himself. "It's the end. "

They went into a hollow and up a gentle wooded slope, and came at lastto a high and open space overlooking a wide expanse of country. There, by a common impulse, they stopped. She looked at her watch--a littleostentatiously. They stared at the billows of forest rolling awaybeneath them, crest beyond crest, of leafy trees, fading at last intoblue. 

"The end" ran through his mind, to the exclusion of all speakablethoughts. 

"And so, " she said, presently, breaking the silence, "it comes togood-bye. "

For half a minute he did not answer. Then he gathered his resolution. "There is one thing I MUST say. "

"Well?" she said, surprised and abruptly forgetting the recent argument. "I ask no return. But--"

Then he stopped. "I won't say it. It's no good. It would be rot fromme--now. I wasn't going to say anything. Good-bye. "

She looked at him with a startled expression in her eyes. "No, " shesaid. "But don't forget you are going to work. Remember, brother Chris, you are my friend. You will work. You are not a very strong man, youknow, now--you will forgive me--nor do you know all you should. But whatwill you be in six years' time?"

He stared hard in front of him still, and the lines about his weak mouthseemed to strengthen. He knew she understood what he could not say. 

"I'll work, " he said, concisely. They stood side by side for a moment. Then he said, with a motion of his head, "I won't come back to THEM. Doyou mind? Going back alone?"

She took ten seconds to think. "No. " she said, and held out her hand, biting her nether lip. "GOOD-BYE, " she whispered. 

He turned, with a white face, looked into her eyes, took her handlimply, and then with a sudden impulse, lifted it to his lips. She wouldhave snatched it away, but his grip tightened to her movement. She feltthe touch of his lips, and then he had dropped her fingers and turnedfrom her and was striding down the slope. A dozen paces away his footturned in the lip of a rabbit hole, and he stumbled forward and almostfell. He recovered his balance and went on, not looking back. He neveronce looked back. She stared at his receding figure until it was smalland far below her, and then, the tears running over her eyelids now, turned slowly, and walked with her hands gripped hard together behindher, towards Stoney Cross again. 

"I did not know, " she whispered to herself. "I did not understand. Evennow--No, I do not understand. "

XLI. THE ENVOY

So the story ends, dear Reader. Mr. Hoopdriver, sprawling down thereamong the bracken, must sprawl without our prying, I think, or listeningto what chances to his breathing. And of what came of it all, of the sixyears and afterwards, this is no place to tell. In truth, there is notelling it, for the years have still to run. But if you see how a merecounter-jumper, a cad on castors, and a fool to boot, may come to feelthe little insufficiencies of life, and if he has to any extent wonyour sympathies, my end is attained. (If it is not attained, may Heavenforgive us both!) Nor will we follow this adventurous young lady of oursback to her home at Surbiton, to her new struggle against Widgery andMrs. Milton combined. For, as she will presently hear, that devoted manhas got his reward. For her, also, your sympathies are invited. 

The rest of this great holiday, too--five days there are left of it--isbeyond the limits of our design. You see fitfully a slender figure ina dusty brown suit and heather mixture stockings, and brown shoes notintended to be cycled in, flitting Londonward through Hampshire andBerkshire and Surrey, going economically--for excellent reasons. Day byday he goes on, riding fitfully and for the most part through bye-roads, but getting a few miles to the north-eastward every day. He is anarrow-chested person, with a nose hot and tanned at the bridge withunwonted exposure, and brown, red-knuckled fists. A musing expressionsits upon the face of this rider, you observe. Sometimes he whistlesnoiselessly to himself, sometimes he speaks aloud, "a juiced good try, anyhow!" you hear; and sometimes, and that too often for my liking, helooks irritable and hopeless. "I know, " he says, "I know. It's overand done. It isn't IN me. You ain't man enough, Hoopdriver. Look at yersilly hands!... Oh, my God!" and a gust of passion comes upon him and herides furiously for a space. 

Sometimes again his face softens. "Anyhow, if I'm not to see her--she'sgoing to lend me books, " he thinks, and gets such comfort as he can. Then again; "Books! What's books?" Once or twice triumphant memories ofthe earlier incidents nerve his face for a while. "I put the ky-bosh onHIS little game, " he remarks. "I DID that, " and one might even call himhappy in these phases. And, by-the-bye, the machine, you notice, hasbeen enamel-painted grey and carries a sonorous gong. 

This figure passes through Basingstoke and Bagshot, Staines, Hampton, and Richmond. At last, in Putney High Street, glowing with the warmth ofan August sunset and with all the 'prentice boys busy shutting up shop, and the work girls going home, and the shop folks peeping abroad, andthe white 'buses full of late clerks and city folk rumbling home totheir dinners, we part from him. He is back. To-morrow, the earlyrising, the dusting, and drudgery, begin again--but with a difference, with wonderful memories and still more wonderful desires and ambitionsreplacing those discrepant dreams. 

He turns out of the High Street at the corner, dismounts with a sigh, and pushes his machine through the gates of the Antrobus stable yard, asthe apprentice with the high collar holds them open. There are words ofgreeting. "South Coast, " you hear; and "splendid weather--splendid. " Hesighs. "Yes--swapped him off for a couple of sovs. It's a juiced goodmachine. "

The gate closes upon him with a slam, and he vanishes from our ken.