Mr. Hoopdriver had his “sister” called down several times before she finally came downstairs.
When she arrived, he gave her an embarrassed but humorous smile.
“There’s a little problem with the bicycle,” he said. “You know, legally speaking, it isn’t exactly mine. That could get rather unpleasant.”
His worry was obvious.
“All right,” Jessie said kindly. “Finish your breakfast quickly, and then we’ll leave. I want to talk things over with you.”
After a good night’s sleep, she looked even more beautiful to Hoopdriver.
Her dark hair fell in soft waves around her forehead, and her bare fingers looked cool and pink.
She also seemed remarkably confident.
Breakfast was a nervous affair.
They talked like brother and sister, but neither had much to say. Hoopdriver was intimidated by the waiter and nearly terrified by the collection of forks and knives in front of him.
Still, Jessie called him “Chris,” and that pleased him enormously.
They spread his cheap county map across the table and discussed which road they should take. But whenever the waiter came near, they stopped talking about anything important.
When the bill arrived, Hoopdriver paid with his five-pound note.
Determined to behave like a gentleman, he gave the waiter and chambermaid half a crown each, and the ostler two shillings.
“Holidaymakers,” the ostler muttered to himself.
Going outside and mounting the bicycles in the street was another matter entirely.
A policeman stood across the road watching them.
Hoopdriver’s heart began to race.
What if the policeman came over and asked, “Is that your bicycle, sir?”
What would he do?
Fight?
Drop the bicycle and run?
Even riding through the town made him nervous. At one point his uncertain steering nearly sent a milk cart crashing into a wall.
That reminded him to pay attention.
He straightened himself and concentrated on the road.
Once they reached the country lanes, he could finally breathe again.
Their conversation also became more relaxed.
“You certainly left Chichester in a hurry,” Jessie said.
“Well, the truth is, I’m a little worried.”
“About the bicycle?”
“Yes.”
“Of course. I’d forgotten about that.”
She looked ahead.
“But where are we going?”
“Just a couple more turns,” Hoopdriver said.
“Maybe another mile or so.”
“I need to think about you, you know. I’d feel safer if we put some distance between us and Chichester.”
“What if we were arrested?”
“Not that I’d be terribly worried for myself…”
They continued riding.
To their left, the grey sea appeared and disappeared between the trees and hedges.
With every mile they put between themselves and Chichester, Hoopdriver felt less guilty.
He also began to feel more like a daring adventurer.
There he was, riding an excellent bicycle with a beautiful girl beside him.
What would everyone at the shop think if they could see him now?
He imagined Miss Isaacs staring at him.
“Why! It’s Mr. Hoopdriver!”
“Never!” Miss Howe would probably say.
He imagined telling them all about his adventure.
Then another thought occurred to him.
What would he call Jessie?
His sister.
His temporary sister.
His name was supposed to be Chris… something.
What was the surname again?
He had almost told her the truth.
He wished he had.
He glanced at Jessie.
She was riding quietly, looking straight ahead.
She seemed thoughtful and perhaps a little confused.
Hoopdriver admired the way she rode. She always kept her lips closed while cycling, something he could never manage.
Then his thoughts turned toward the future.
What was Jessie going to do?
What was he going to do?
He had rescued her.
That was important.
It was brave, manly work.
But she really ought to go home.
Even if she hated her stepmother, going home was probably the sensible thing.
He would have to persuade her.
He also wondered how much money she had.
How much was the train from Havant to London?
He would probably have to pay for it.
That was what a gentleman would do.
Then he imagined taking her home himself.
Her stepmother would be there, finally realizing how badly she had treated Jessie.
There might even be some uncles and servants standing around.
The footman would announce:
“Mr. …”
Hoopdriver immediately ran into trouble.
What was the name he had given Jessie?
He would have to avoid that subject.
Then he imagined the dramatic reunion.
Jessie and her stepmother would fall into each other’s arms, both crying.
He would stand quietly in the background wearing his handsome new Norfolk jacket.
At the end, he would leave.
He imagined himself pausing dramatically in the doorway, just like a famous actor.
“Be kind to her,” he would say softly.
“Be kind to her.”
Then he would disappear, brokenhearted.
But that was for later.
Soon he would have to start talking to Jessie about going home.
He had fallen behind while daydreaming, so he hurried to catch up.
Jessie began speaking.
“Mr. Denison,” she said.
Then she hesitated.
“That is your name, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’m terrible with names.”
“It is,” Hoopdriver said.
Denison?
Denison?
Denison?
What on earth had he called himself?
Jessie continued.
“I wonder how far you’re willing to help me.”
That was a difficult question to answer while riding a bicycle.
Hoopdriver suddenly wobbled badly.
“You can rely on me,” he said, recovering his balance.
“I really do want to help you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m completely at your service.”
He wished he could say things like that without nearly riding into a hedge.
“You see, I’m in a very difficult situation.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help, I’d be very happy.”
They rode around another bend.
Then they came to a quiet grassy place beside the road. Yarrow and meadowsweet grew along the edge, and a fallen tree lay among the grass.
Jessie stopped.
She leaned her bicycle against a stone and sat down.
“We can talk here,” she said.
“Yes,” Hoopdriver replied eagerly.
For a while she sat with her chin resting in her hand, staring into the distance.
Finally she spoke.
“I don’t know exactly what to do.”
“But I’ve decided that I want to live my own life.”
“Of course,” Hoopdriver said.
“That seems perfectly reasonable.”
“I want to live. I want to discover what life is really like.”
“I want to learn.”
“Everyone keeps rushing me into things. Everything moves so quickly.”
“I just want some time to think.”
Hoopdriver didn’t fully understand what she meant, but he admired the way she spoke.
She always seemed to know exactly what she wanted to say.
“If people force you into something you might regret,” he said carefully, “then yes, that would be foolish.”
“Don’t you want to learn too?” she asked.
“I was actually thinking about that this morning…”
He stopped.
Jessie was too deep in thought to notice his unfinished sentence.
“When I think about life, it frightens me,” she said.
“I feel as if I’m just a tiny speck caught on a huge wheel.”
“I suddenly found myself here, alive, and I keep asking myself, ‘Why am I here?’”
“I asked myself that last week.”
“I asked it yesterday.”
“And I’m still asking it today.”
“Meanwhile, ordinary things keep happening.”
“My stepmother takes me shopping.”
“People come over for tea.”
“There’s a new play, a concert, or another book to read.”
“And the whole world keeps turning.”
“Day after day.”
“Round and round.”
“It’s frightening.”
“I wish I could stop everything for a while, like Joshua stopping the sun, and have time to figure out what I really want.”
“But I can’t do that at home.”
Hoopdriver stroked his moustache.
“She’s right,” he said quietly.
“Things just keep going.”
A gentle summer breeze moved through the trees.
A dandelion seed floated up from the grass, broke apart in the wind, and disappeared in different directions.
Hoopdriver watched it until he could no longer see it.
“I can’t go back to Surbiton,” Jessie said.
“Eh?”
Hoopdriver looked at her in surprise.
“I want to write,” she explained.
“I want to write books and change things.”
“I want to do something useful.”
“I want to live freely and make my own decisions.”
“I can’t go back.”
“I want to become a journalist.”
“I’ve been told I might be able to do it.”
“But I don’t know anyone who can help me right now.”
“There is one person who might.”
“She used to be a teacher at my school.”
“If I could write to her…”
“But how would I get her reply?”
“Hmm,” Hoopdriver said seriously.
“I don’t want to trouble you any more,” Jessie continued.
“You’ve already risked so much for me.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Hoopdriver said.
“Helping you is almost like getting paid twice for the same adventure.”
She smiled.
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Surbiton is so conventional.”
“I’ve decided I don’t want to live that way.”
“I want to be independent, whatever the cost.”
“But everything keeps getting in my way.”
“I want to break free.”
“I want to struggle for something of my own.”
“I want to make my own place in the world.”
“I want to choose my own career.”
“My stepmother doesn’t want that.”
“She lives exactly as she pleases, but she insists that I live differently.”
“Perhaps being strict with me makes her feel better about herself.”
“But if I go home now…”
“If I go back knowing that I’ve been defeated…”
She stopped.
Hoopdriver understood enough.
“I see,” he said.
He had to help her.
Inside his head, he began doing complicated calculations with the five pounds, six shillings, and two pence he had left.
He vaguely imagined that Jessie was trying to escape from an arranged marriage.
Of course, she was too embarrassed to say so directly.
His understanding of the world was limited.
“You know, Mr.…”
She frowned.
“I’ve forgotten your name again.”
Hoopdriver was lost in thought.
“You can’t simply go back,” he said slowly.
His ears suddenly became red.
His cheeks flushed.
“But what is your name?” Jessie asked.
“My name?”
He panicked.
“Why, Benson, of course.”
“Mr. Benson.”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“I really am terrible with names.”
“I’ll write it down.”
She took out a tiny silver pencil and wrote the name on her cuff.
“If I could write to my old teacher, I think she could help me.”
“I could write to her.”
“Or perhaps send a telegram.”
“No, a letter would be better. I couldn’t explain everything in a telegram.”
“I know she would help me.”
Hoopdriver considered the situation.
Clearly, there was only one thing a gentleman could do.
“In that case,” he said, “if you’re willing to trust a stranger, perhaps we could continue travelling together for another day or two.”
“Just until you hear from your friend.”
“You’re very kind to me.”
His expression showed how pleased he was.
“All right,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“It’s wonderful.”
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you…”
She suddenly changed the subject.
“How much was our hotel bill in Chichester?”
“Eh?”
Hoopdriver pretended not to understand.
They discussed it for a moment.
Secretly, he was delighted that Jessie insisted on paying her share.
Eventually they agreed on their plan for the day.
They would ride slowly toward Havant, then perhaps continue to Fareham or Southampton.
The previous day had exhausted them both.
Jessie stood up and they prepared to continue.
As Hoopdriver looked down at the map, his eyes happened to fall on the bicycle.
“That bicycle,” he said casually, “would look completely different with a large double Elarum horn instead of that little bell.”
“Why?”
“Just a thought.”
There was a short silence.
“All right,” Jessie said.
“Havant, then. And lunch.”
She stood up.
Hoopdriver looked uncomfortable.
“I wish we could have managed all this without stealing that bicycle.”
“Because, when you think about it, that’s exactly what we’ve done.”
“Nonsense,” Jessie said.
“If Mr. Bechamel gives you any trouble, I’ll tell everyone exactly what happened.”
“I believe you would.”
Hoopdriver smiled admiringly.
“You’re certainly brave enough.”
He noticed that she was already standing, so he picked up her bicycle.
She took it from him and wheeled it toward the road.
Hoopdriver picked up his own bicycle and paused.
“I say…”
Jessie looked back.
“How would this bicycle look if I painted it grey?”
She stared at his serious face.
“Why are you trying to hide it?”
“It was just a passing thought,” he said lightly.
“Nothing important.”
They rode toward Havant.
As they went, Hoopdriver briefly realized that their conversation had turned out very differently from what he had expected.
But that was typical of his life.
His common sense warned him.
His caution counted the money in his pocket.
An old instinct told him that stealing property was wrong.
But another voice inside him was much louder.
He would get to ride beside Jessie all day.
Perhaps tomorrow too.
Maybe even for several more days.
He could talk to her as her brother.
He could protect her.
And he could share this extraordinary adventure with her.
For Hoopdriver, those thoughts were intoxicating.
His old fantasies were turning into something much more exciting: real possibilities.
When they reached Havant, he found a small hairdresser’s shop on the main street.
He bought a toothbrush, a pair of nail scissors, and a small bottle of moustache-darkening liquid.
The shopkeeper strongly recommended the last item.
Hoopdriver bought it immediately.