Wheels of Chance — 05 - Chapters 13 to 15
XIII. HOW MR.
HOOPDRIVER WENT TO HASLEMERE
There was some little delay in getting Mr. Hoopdriver’s breakfast, so that after all he was not free to start out of Guildford until just upon the stroke of nine.
He wheeled his machine from the High Street in some perplexity.
He did not know whether this young lady, who had seized hold of his imagination so strongly, and her unfriendly and possibly menacing brother, were ahead of him or even now breakfasting somewhere in Guildford.
In the former case he might loiter as he chose;
in the latter he must hurry, and possibly take refuge in branch roads.
It occurred to him as being in some obscure way strategic, that he would leave Guildford not by the obvious Portsmouth road, but by the road running through Shalford.
Along this pleasant shady way he felt sufficiently secure to resume his exercises in riding with one hand off the handles, and in staring over his shoulder.
He came over once or twice, but fell on his foot each time, and perceived that he was improving.
Before he got to Bramley a specious byway snapped him up, ran with him for half a mile or more, and dropped him as a terrier drops a walkingstick, upon the Portsmouth again, a couple of miles from Godalming.
He entered Godalming on his feet, for the road through that delightful town is beyond dispute the vilest in the world, a mere tumult of road metal, a way of peaks and precipices, and, after a successful experiment with cider at the Woolpack, he pushed on to Milford.
All this time he was acutely aware of the existence of the Young Lady in 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 far ahead of him a glittering wheel, but it proved to be a workingman riding to destruction on a very tall ordinary.
And he felt a curious, vague uneasiness about that Young Lady in Grey, for which he was altogether unable to account.
Now that he was awake he had forgotten that accentuated Miss Beaumont that had been quite clear in his dream.
But the curious dream conviction, that the girl was not really the man’s sister, would not let itself be forgotten.
Why, for instance, should a man want to be alone with his sister on the top of a tower?
At Milford his bicycle made, so to speak, an ass of itself.
A
finger-post suddenly jumped out at him, vainly indicating an abrupt turn to the right, and Mr. Hoopdriver would have slowed up and read the inscription, but no!
—the bicycle would not let him.
The road dropped a little into Milford, 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 meant dismounting.
For as yet there was no road wide enough for Mr. Hoopdriver to turn in.
So he went on his way—or to be precise, he did exactly the opposite thing.
The road to the right was the Portsmouth road, and this he was on went to Haslemere and Midhurst.
By that error it came about that he once more came upon his fellow travellers of yesterday, coming on them suddenly, without the slightest preliminary announcement and when they least expected it, under the Southwestern Railway arch.
“It’s horrible,” said a girlish voice; “it’s brutal—cowardly—” And stopped.
His expression, as he shot out from the archway at them, may have been something between a grin of recognition and a scowl of annoyance at himself for the unintentional intrusion.
But disconcerted as he was, he was yet able to appreciate something of the peculiarity of their mutual attitudes.
The bicycles were lying by the roadside, and the two riders stood face to face.
The other man in brown’s attitude, as it flashed upon Hoopdriver, was a deliberate pose; he twirled his moustache and smiled faintly, and he was conscientiously looking amused.
And the girl stood rigid, her arms straight by her side, her handkerchief clenched in her hand, and her face was flushed, with the faintest touch of red upon her eyelids.
She seemed to Mr. Hoopdriver’s sense to be indignant.
But that was the impression of a second.
A mask of surprised recognition fell across this revelation of emotion as she turned her head towards him, and the pose of the other man in brown vanished too in a momentary astonishment.
And then he had passed them, and was riding on towards Haslemere to make what he could of the swift picture that had photographed 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.
He grasped his brake, descended, and stood looking hesitatingly back.
They still stood by the railway bridge, and it seemed to Mr. Hoopdriver’s fancy that she was stamping her foot.
He hesitated, then turned his bicycle round, mounted, and rode back towards them, gripping his courage firmly lest it should slip away and leave him ridiculous.
“I’ll offer ’im a screw ’ammer,” said Mr. Hoopdriver.
Then, with a wave of fierce emotion, he saw that the girl was crying.
In another moment they heard him and turned in surprise.
Certainly she had been crying; her eyes were swimming in tears, and the other man in brown looked exceedingly disconcerted.
Mr. Hoopdriver descended and stood over his machine.
“Nothing wrong, I hope?
” he said, looking the other man in brown squarely 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 is crying.
I thought perhaps—” The Young Lady in Grey started, gave Hoopdriver one swift glance, and covered 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 her eye.
” There was a pause.
The young lady busied herself with her eye.
“I believe it’s out,” she said.
The other man in brown made movements indicating commiserating curiosity concerning the alleged fly.
Mr. Hoopdriver—the word is his own—stood flabber-gastered.
He had all the intuition of the simple-minded.
He knew there was no fly.
But the ground was suddenly cut from his feet.
There is a limit to knighterrantry—dragons and false knights are all very well, but flies!
Fictitious flies!
Whatever the trouble was, it was evidently not his affair.
He felt he had made a fool of himself again.
He would have mumbled some sort of apology; but the other man in brown gave him no time, turned on him abruptly, even fiercely.
“I hope,” he said, “that your curiosity is satisfied?
” “Certainly,” said Mr. Hoopdriver.
“Then we won’t detain you.
” And, ignominiously, Mr. Hoopdriver turned his machine about, struggled upon it, and resumed the road southward.
And when he learnt that he was not on the Portsmouth road, it was impossible to turn and go back, for that would be to face his shame again, and so he had to ride on by Brook Street up the hill to Haslemere.
And away to the right the Portsmouth road mocked at him and made off to its fastnesses amid the sunlit green and purple masses of Hindhead, where Mr. Grant Allen writes his Hill Top Novels day by day.
The sun shone, and the wide blue hill views and pleasant valleys one saw on either hand from the sandscarred roadway, even the sides of the road itself set about with grey heather scrub and prickly masses of gorse, and pine trees with their year’s growth still bright green, against the darkened 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 of freedom fought an uphill fight against his intolerable vexation at that abominable 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 abandoning Portsmouth, or at least giving up the straight way to his fellow-wayfarers, and of striking out boldly to the left, eastward.
He did not dare to stop at any of the inviting public-houses in the main street of Haslemere, but turned up a side way and found a little beer-shop, the Good Hope, wherein to refresh himself.
And there he ate and gossipped condescendingly with an aged labourer, assuming the while for his own private enjoyment the attributes of a Lost Heir, and afterwards mounted and rode on towards Northchapel, a place which a number of finger-posts conspired to boom, but which some insidious turning prevented him from attaining.
XIV. HOW MR.
HOOPDRIVER REACHED MIDHURST
It was one of my uncle’s profoundest remarks that human beings are the only unreasonable creatures.
This observation was so far justified by Mr. Hoopdriver that, after spending the morning tortuously avoiding the other man in brown and the Young Lady in Grey, he spent a considerable part of the afternoon in thinking about the Young Lady in Grey, and contemplating in an optimistic spirit the possibilities of seeing her again.
Memory and imagination played round her, so that his course was largely determined by the windings of the road he traversed.
Of one general proposition he was absolutely convinced.
“There’s something Juicy wrong with ’em,” said he—once even aloud.
But what it was he could not imagine.
He recapitulated the facts.
“Miss Beaumont—brother and sister—and the stoppage to quarrel and weep—” it was perplexing material for a young man of small experience.
There was no exertion he hated so much as inference, and after a time he gave up any attempt to 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 not about.
The vision he found pleasantest was an encounter with her, an unexpected encounter at the annual Dancing Class ‘Do’ at the Putney Assembly Rooms.
Somehow they would drift together, and he would dance with her again and again.
It was a pleasant vision, for you must understand that Mr. Hoopdriver danced uncommonly well.
Or again, in the shop, a sudden radiance in the doorway, and she is bowed towards the Manchester counter.
And then to lean over that counter and murmur, seemingly _àpropos_ of the goods under discussion, “I have not forgotten that morning on the Portsmouth road,” and lower, “I never shall forget.
” At Northchapel Mr. Hoopdriver consulted his map and took counsel and weighed his course of action.
Petworth seemed a possible resting-place, or Pullborough; Midhurst seemed too near, and any place over the Downs beyond, too far, and so he meandered towards Petworth, posing himself perpetually and loitering, gathering wild flowers and wondering why they had no names—for he had never heard of any—dropping them furtively at the sight of a stranger, and generally ‘mucking about.
’ There were purple vetches in the hedges, meadowsweet, honeysuckle, belated brambles—but the dog-roses had already gone; there were green and red blackberries, stellarias, and dandelions, and in another place white dead nettles, traveller’s-joy, clinging bedstraw, grasses flowering, white campions, and ragged robins.
One cornfield was glorious with poppies, bright scarlet and purple white, and the blue corn-flowers were beginning.
In the lanes the trees met overhead, and the wisps of hay still hung to the straggling hedges.
In one of the main roads he steered a perilous passage through a dozen surly dun oxen.
Here and there were little cottages, and picturesque beer-houses with the vivid brewers’ boards of blue and scarlet, and once a broad green and a church, and an expanse of some hundred houses or so.
Then he came to a pebbly rivulet that emerged between clumps of sedge loosestrife and forget-me-nots under an arch of trees, and rippled across the road, and there he dismounted, longing to take off shoes and stockings—those stylish chequered stockings were now all dimmed with dust—and paddle his lean legs in the chuckling cheerful water.
But instead he sat in a manly attitude, smoking a cigarette, for fear lest the Young Lady in Grey should come glittering round the corner.
For the flavour of the Young Lady in Grey was present through it all, mixing with the flowers and all the delight of it, a touch that made this second day quite different from the first, an undertone of expectation, anxiety, and something like regret that would not be ignored.
It was only late in the long evening that, quite abruptly, he began to repent, vividly and decidedly, having fled these two people.
He was getting hungry, and that has a curious effect upon the emotional colouring of our minds.
The man was a sinister brute, Hoopdriver saw in a flash of inspiration, and the girl—she was in some serious trouble.
And he who might have helped her had taken his first impulse as decisive—and bolted.
This new view of it depressed him dreadfully.
What might not be happening to her now?
He thought again of her tears.
Surely it was merely his duty, seeing the trouble afoot, to keep his eye upon it.
He began riding fast to get quit of such selfreproaches.
He found himself 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’m getting hungry,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, inquiring of a gamekeeper in Easebourne village.
“Midhurst a mile, and Petworth five!
—Thenks, I’ll take Midhurst.
” He came into Midhurst by the bridge at the watermill, and up the North Street, and a little shop flourishing cheerfully, the cheerful sign of a teapot, and exhibiting a brilliant array of tobaccos, sweets, and children’s toys in the window, struck his fancy.
A neat, bright-eyed little old lady made him welcome, and he was presently supping sumptuously on sausages and tea, with a visitors’ book full of the most humorous and flattering remarks about the little old lady, in verse and prose, propped up against his teapot as he ate.
Regular good some of the jokes were, and rhymes that read well—even with your mouth full of 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 recess and a chest of drawers, for presently it was to be his bedroom, and the day part of it was decorated with framed Oddfellows’ certificates and giltbacked books and portraits, and kettle-holders, and all kinds of beautiful things made out of wool; very comfortable it was indeed.
The window was lead framed and diamond paned, and through it one saw the corner of the vicarage and a pleasant hill crest, in dusky silhouette against the twilight sky.
And after the sausages had ceased to be, he lit a Red Herring cigarette and went swaggering out into the twilight street.
All shadowy blue between its dark brick houses, was the street, with a bright yellow window here and there and splashes of green and red where the chemist’s illumination fell across the road.
XV. AN INTERLUDE
And now let us for a space leave Mr. Hoopdriver in the dusky Midhurst North Street, and return to the two folks beside the railway bridge between Milford and Haslemere.
She was a girl of eighteen, dark, fine featured, with bright eyes, and a rich, swift colour under her warm-tinted skin.
Her eyes were all the brighter for the tears that swam in them.
The man was thirty three or four, fair, with a longish nose overhanging his sandy flaxen moustache, pale blue eyes, and a head that struck out above and behind.
He stood with his feet wide apart, his hand on his hip, in an attitude that was equally suggestive of defiance and aggression.
They had watched Hoopdriver out of sight.
The unexpected interruption had stopped the flood of her tears.
He tugged his abundant moustache and regarded her calmly.
She stood with face averted, obstinately resolved not to speak first.
“Your behaviour,” he said at last, “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.
Who wouldn’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 eyes alight with anger and contempt, and perhaps he flushed a little.
He stroked 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 the world.
” “You have always had it so—in your generalising way.
But let us look at the 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 home because 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 to earn a living by writing.
It was you who said, why shouldn’t a man and woman 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 least clear-headed.
You don’t know everything yet, you know.
Listen to me for a moment.
” “Haven’t I been listening?
And you have only insulted me.
You who dared only to talk of friendship, who scarcely dared hint at anything beyond.
” “But you took the hints, nevertheless.
You knew.
You _knew_.
And you did not 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 of yours, 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 minute neither spoke.
Then she began half defiantly: “Much I am compromised.
Of course—I have made a fool of myself—” “My dear girl, you are still on the sunny side of eighteen, and you know 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 have to learn.
And that’s one point—” He hesitated.
“You started and blushed when the man at breakfast called you Ma’am.
You thought it a funny mistake, but you did not say anything because he was young and nervous—and besides, the thought of being my wife offended your modesty.
You didn’t care to notice it.
But—you see; I gave your name as _Mrs_.
Beaumont.
” He looked almost apologetic, in spite of his cynical pose.
“_Mrs_.
Beaumont,” he repeated, pulling his flaxen moustache and watching the effect.
She looked into his eyes speechless.
“I am learning fast,” she said slowly, 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, is villanous.
But do you think that I have done all this scheming, all this subterfuge, for any other object—” She did not seem to listen to his words.
“I shall ride home,” she said abruptly.
“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 without conventionality—” “My dear girl, do let us be cynical.
You haven’t money and you haven’t credit.
No one would take you in.
It’s one of two things: go back to your stepmother, or—trust to me.
” “How _can_ I?
” “Then you must go back to her.
” He paused momentarily, to let this consideration have its proper weight.
“Jessie, I did not mean to say the things I did.
Upon my honour, I lost my head when I spoke so.
If you will, forgive me.
I am a man.
I could not help myself.
Forgive me, and I promise 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 of this horrible bridge long enough.
” “Oh!
let me think,” she said, half turning from him and pressing her hand to her brow.
“_Think!
_ Look here, Jessie.
It is ten o’clock.
Shall we call a truce until one?
” She hesitated, demanded a definition of the truce, and at last agreed.
They mounted, and rode on in silence, through the sunlight and the heather.
Both were extremely uncomfortable and disappointed.
She was pale, 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 thing would keep in her mind, try as she would to ignore it.
That was the quite irrelevant fact that his head was singularly like an albino cocoanut.
He, too, felt thwarted.
He felt that this romantic business of seduction was, after all, unexpectedly tame.
But this was only the beginning.
At any rate, every day she spent with him was a day gained.
Perhaps things looked worse than they were; that was some consolation.
