One of my uncle’s favorite observations was that human beings are the only creatures foolish enough to act against their own interests.
Mr. Hoopdriver certainly proved the point.
He had spent the whole morning doing his best to avoid the Young Lady in Grey and the man in brown. Yet for most of the afternoon, he could think of little else but the young woman.
His memory kept bringing her back, while his imagination invented one pleasant possibility after another. Before long, his route was being decided less by the road itself than by whatever thoughts happened to be running through his head.
There was one thing he was absolutely sure of.
“There’s something juicy wrong with them,” he said once, actually speaking aloud.
But what exactly was wrong, he had no idea.
He went over everything he knew.
“Miss Beaumont… brother and sister… stopping by the railway bridge to quarrel… and then she was crying…”
It was a very confusing situation for a young man with so little experience of the world.
Hoopdriver hated having to work things out logically. After struggling with the problem for a while, he finally gave up trying to discover the truth.
His imagination was much more enjoyable.
Would he ever see her again?
Suppose he did—and suppose that other fellow wasn’t there.
That thought alone made him feel better.
His favorite fantasy was meeting her unexpectedly at the annual dance at the Putney Assembly Rooms. Somehow they would end up together, and he would dance with her again and again.
It was a particularly pleasant fantasy because Hoopdriver was, in fact, an excellent dancer.
Then another scene came to him.
He was back at the shop, standing behind the counter. Suddenly, she appeared in the doorway, glowing with light as she walked toward the Manchester goods.
He would lean toward her and quietly say:
“I haven’t forgotten that morning on the Portsmouth Road.”
Then, even more softly:
“I never will.”
That pleased him enormously.
When he reached Northchapel, Hoopdriver stopped to study his map and decide where he should spend the night.
Petworth seemed possible. Pulborough was another choice.
Midhurst felt too close, while anywhere beyond the Downs seemed too far away.
So he decided to wander toward Petworth.
He took his time, posing now and then as though he were a gentleman traveler enjoying the countryside. He picked wildflowers from the hedges, even though he didn’t know the names of most of them.
Whenever he saw a stranger coming, he quietly dropped the flowers.
There were purple vetches, meadowsweet, honeysuckle and late blackberries. The dog roses had already disappeared, but there were still plenty of other flowers growing along the roads.
He saw white dead-nettle, traveller’s-joy, bedstraw, flowering grasses, white campions and ragged robin.
One cornfield was especially beautiful, filled with bright scarlet poppies, patches of pale purple and white, and the first blue cornflowers of the season.
In the narrow lanes, trees grew together overhead, forming green tunnels. Bits of freshly cut hay still clung to the hedges.
On one larger road, Hoopdriver had to steer his bicycle carefully through a group of twelve large, bad-tempered oxen.
Every now and then he passed a little cottage or a cheerful country beer house with brightly painted brewery signs.
Then there would be a village green, a church, and a cluster of perhaps a hundred houses.
Eventually he reached a small stream.
It came out from beneath a group of trees, running between reeds, purple loosestrife and forget-me-nots before spilling across the road in a clear, lively stream.
Hoopdriver stopped and got off his bicycle.
He desperately wanted to take off his shoes and stockings and paddle his thin legs in the cool water.
Those smart checked stockings had become thoroughly covered in dust by now.
But he resisted the temptation.
Instead, he sat down in what he considered a suitably manly pose and lit a cigarette.
Why?
Because he was afraid the Young Lady in Grey might suddenly appear around the next bend.
She had become part of the entire journey.
The flowers seemed connected with her. The beautiful countryside seemed connected with her.
Even when she wasn’t there, Hoopdriver felt as though he were waiting for her to appear.
That made this second day completely different from the first.
There was now a strange mixture of excitement, anxiety and something very close to regret.
For most of the evening, he continued wandering.
Then, quite suddenly, he began to regret running away from the two travelers.
He was getting hungry, and hunger has a strange way of changing a person’s thoughts.
A moment before, he had been trying to forget them.
Now everything looked different.
That man in brown was not merely unpleasant, Hoopdriver decided.
He was dangerous.
And the girl was clearly in some kind of serious trouble.
Hoopdriver suddenly remembered her tears.
He had seen that something was wrong.
He might have been able to help her.
And what had he done?
He had run away.
The realization made him feel miserable.
“What could be happening to her now?” he wondered.
He thought again about the tears in her eyes.
Surely he should have stayed nearby.
Surely, once he had seen that something was wrong, it was his duty to keep an eye on the situation.
His conscience became so uncomfortable that he began riding faster.
Unfortunately, the roads soon became hopelessly confusing.
He followed one turning after another until the light began to fade.
Instead of reaching Petworth, he finally found himself in Easebourne, about a mile from Midhurst.
He stopped beside a gamekeeper in the village.
“I’m getting hungry,” Hoopdriver said. “How far is Midhurst?”
“About a mile.”
“And Petworth?”
“Five miles.”
“Thenks,” said Hoopdriver. “I’ll take Midhurst.”
He rode into Midhurst by the bridge near the watermill and continued along North Street.
There he noticed a little shop that immediately caught his attention.
A cheerful sign shaped like a teapot hung outside.
The window was filled with tobacco, sweets and children’s toys.
A neat little old woman with bright eyes welcomed him warmly.
Before long, Hoopdriver was sitting down to a magnificent supper of sausages and tea.
Beside his teapot lay a visitors’ book filled with amusing comments about the old lady.
Some were written in prose.
Others were poems.
Several of the jokes were genuinely funny, and some of the rhymes were surprisingly good.
Hoopdriver enjoyed them so much that he could barely read them properly while eating sausages.
An idea began forming in his mind.
Perhaps he should draw a picture of the old woman.
He had already decided what she looked like in his imagination.
He pictured himself secretly making a brilliant sketch of her.
Then, later, she would discover it.
“My gracious!” she would say.
“One of those Punch artists!”
The thought pleased him.
The room itself was also charming.
There was a curtained alcove, a chest of drawers and plenty of old-fashioned decorations.
This, he discovered, would also be his bedroom for the night.
The walls were decorated with framed certificates from the Oddfellows, old books with golden spines, portraits and all sorts of beautifully made woolen ornaments.
It was wonderfully comfortable.
The window had a diamond-shaped pattern of small panes.
Through it, Hoopdriver could see part of the vicarage and the dark outline of a pleasant hill against the evening sky.
After finishing his sausages, he lit another Red Herring cigarette.
Then he stepped outside and swaggered into the fading twilight.
The street was now a deep blue shadow between the dark brick houses.
Here and there, a bright yellow window shone onto the street.
From the chemist’s shop, splashes of green and red light spilled across the pavement.
Hoopdriver walked through it all with the satisfied feeling that he was having the greatest adventure of his life.