The Wheels of Chance

“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,” said the 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. How should I look with a black eye? And going round with the carriage with a split lip?”

“If you don’t want your face sp’iled, Charlie, why don’t you keep your mouth 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 meant the thing joking,” said Charlie. “AS one gentleman to another, I’m very sorry 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 any rate a redeeming feature. But it became his pose to ride hard and heavy over 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 we going?”

“Don’t sit there and be abusive,” said the man in velveteen. “He’s offered to hit you, and if I was him, I’d hit you now.”

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

“Charlie’s artful,” said the little man with the beard.

“Buller’s yard,” said the man with the gaiters, taking the control of the entire affair with the easy readiness of an accomplished practitioner. “If the gentleman DON’T mind.” Buller’s yard, it seemed, was the very place. “We’ll do the thing regular and decent, if you 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 his life.

Outwardly, so far as the intermittent moonlight showed, Mr. Hoopdriver was quietly but eagerly prepared to fight. But inwardly he was a chaos of conflicting purposes. It was extraordinary how things happened. One remark had trod so closely on the heels of another, that he had had the greatest difficulty in following the development of the business. He distinctly remembered himself walking across from one room to the other, – a dignified, even an aristocratic figure, primed with considered eloquence, intent upon a scathing remonstrance to these wretched yokels, regarding their manners. Then incident had flickered into incident until here he was out in a moonlit lane, – a slight, dark figure in a group of larger, indistinct figures, – marching in a quiet, business-like way towards some unknown horror at Buller’s yard. Fists! It was astonishing. It was terrible! In front of him was the pallid figure of Charles, and he saw that the man in gaiters held Charles kindly but firmly by the arm.

“It’s blasted rot,” Charles was saying, “getting up a fight just for a thing like that; all very well for ‘im. ‘E’s got ‘is ‘olidays; ‘e ‘asn’t no blessed dinner to take up to-morrow night like I ‘ave. – No need to numb my arm, IS there?”

They went into Buller’s yard through gates. There were sheds in Buller’s yard – sheds of mystery that the moonlight could not solve – a smell of cows, and a pump stood out clear and black, throwing a clear black shadow on the whitewashed wall. And here it was his face was to be battered to a pulp. He knew this was the uttermost folly, to stand up here and be pounded, but the way out of it was beyond his imagining. Yet afterwards – ? Could he ever face her again? He patted his Norfolk jacket and 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 the inn and lock himself into his bedroom? They couldn’t make, him come out – anyhow. He could prosecute them for assault if they did. How did one set about prosecuting for assault? He saw Charles, with his face ghastly white under the moon, squaring in front of him.

He caught a blow on the arm and gave ground. Charles pressed him. Then he hit with his right and with the violence of despair. It was a hit of his own devising, – an impromptu, – but it chanced to coincide with the regulation hook hit at the head. He perceived with a leap of exultation that the thing his fist had met was the jawbone of Charles. It was the sole gleam of pleasure he experienced during the fight, and it was quite momentary. He had hardly got home upon Charles before he was struck in the chest and whirled backward. He had the greatest difficulty in keeping his feet. He felt that his heart was smashed flat. “Gord darm!” said somebody, dancing toe in hand somewhere behind him. As Mr. Hoopdriver staggered, Charles gave a loud and fear-compelling cry. He seemed to tower over Hoopdriver in the moonlight. Both his fists were whirling. It was annihilation coming – no less. Mr. Hoopdriver ducked perhaps and certainly gave ground to the right, hit, and missed. Charles swept 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 round Mr. Hoopdriver, and then he became aware of a figure in a light suit shooting violently through an open gate into the night. The man in gaiters sprang forward past Mr. Hoopdriver, but too late to intercept the fugitive. There were shouts, laughter, and Mr. Hoopdriver, still solemnly squaring, realized the great and wonderful truth – Charles had fled. 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 little man with the beard was remarking in an unexpectedly friendly manner.

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

“It seems so dreadful that you should have to knock people about,” said Jessie.

“These louts get unbearable,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “If now and then we didn’t give them a lesson, – well, a lady cyclist in the roads would be an impossibility.”

“I suppose every woman shrinks from violence,” said Jessie. “I suppose men ARE braver – in a way – than women. It seems to me-I can’t imagine – how one could bring oneself to face a roomful of rough characters, pick out the bravest, and give him an exemplary thrashing. I quail at the idea. I thought only Ouida’s guardsmen did things like that.”

“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 a particle 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 the Golden Pheasant in Blandford. They were in the course of an elaborate doubling movement through Dorsetshire towards Ringwood, where Jessie anticipated an answer from her schoolmistress friend. By this time they had been nearly sixty hours together, and you will understand that Mr. Hoopdriver’s feelings had undergone a considerable intensification and development. At first Jessie had been only an impressionist sketch upon his mind, something feminine, active, and dazzling, something emphatically “above” him, cast into his company by a kindly fate. His chief idea, at the outset, as you know, had been to live up to her level, by pretending to be more exceptional, more wealthy, better educated, and, above all, better born than he was. His knowledge of the feminine mind was almost entirely derived from the young ladies he had met in business, and in that class (as in military society and among gentlemen’s servants) the good old tradition of a brutal social exclusiveness is still religiously preserved. He had an almost intolerable dread of her thinking him a I bounder.’ Later he began to perceive the distinction of her idiosyncracies. Coupled with a magnificent want of experience was a splendid enthusiasm for abstract views of the most advanced description, and her strength of conviction completely carried Hoopdriver away. She was going to Live her Own Life, with emphasis, and Mr. Hoopdriver was profoundly stirred to similar resolves. So soon as he grasped the tenor of her views, he perceived that he himself had thought as much from his earliest years. “Of course,” he remarked, in a flash of sexual pride, “a man is freer than a woman. End in the Colonies, y’know, there isn’t half the Conventionality you find in society in this country.”

He made one or two essays in the display of unconventionality, and was quite unaware that he impressed her as a narrow-minded person. He suppressed 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,” he said, “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 he had read in the Globe ‘turnovers’ on that subject. But he showed his gentle breeding by keeping his gloves on all through the Sunday’s ride, and ostentatiously throwing away more than half a cigarette when they passed 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 the old-fashioned gallery of Blandford church. Jessie’s conscience, I may perhaps tell you, was now suffering the severest twinges. She perceived clearly that things were not working out quite along the lines she had designed-. She had read her Olive Schreiner and George Egerton, and so forth, with all the want of perfect comprehension of one who is still emotionally a girl. She knew the thing to do was to have a flat and to go to the British Museum and write leading articles for the daily papers until something better came along. If Bechamel (detestable person) had kept his promises, instead of behaving with unspeakable horridness, all would have been well. Now her only hope was that liberal-minded woman, Miss Mergle, who, a year ago, had sent her out, highly educated, into the world. Miss Mergle had told her at parting to live fearlessly and truly, and had further given her a volume of Emerson’s Essays and Motley’s “Dutch Republic,” to help her through the rapids of adolescence.

Jessie’s feelings for her stepmother’s household at Surbiton amounted to an active detestation. There are no graver or more solemn women in the world than these clever girls whose scholastic advancement has retarded their feminine coquetry. In spite of the advanced tone of ‘Thomas Plantagenet’s’ antimarital novel, Jessie had speedily seen through that amiable woman’s amiable defences. The variety of pose necessitated by the corps of ‘Men’ annoyed her to an altogether unreasonable degree. To return to this life of ridiculous unreality – unconditional capitulation to ‘Conventionality’ was an exasperating prospect. Yet what else was there to do? You will understand, therefore, that at times she was moody (and Mr. Hoopdriver respectfully silent and attentive) and at times inclined to eloquent denunciation of the existing order of things. She was a Socialist, Hoopdriver learnt, and he gave a vague intimation that he went further, intending, thereby, no less than the horrors of anarchism. He would have owned up to the destruction of the Winter Palace indeed, had he had the faintest idea where the Winter Palace was, and had his assurance amounted to certainty that the Winter Palace was destroyed. He agreed with her cordially that the position of women was intolerable, but checked himself on the’ verge of the proposition that a girl ought not to expect a fellow to hand down boxes for her when he was getting the ‘swap’ from a customer. It was Jessie’s preoccupation with 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 that savoured of suspicion.

On Sunday night, for no conceivable reason, an unwonted wakefulness came upon him. Unaccountably he realised he was a contemptible liar, All through the small hours of Monday he reviewed the tale of his falsehoods, and when he tried to turn his mind from that, the financial problem 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 our happiest.

XXXIV

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

She stopped abruptly, with a puzzled expression on her face. “Where HAVE I seen that before?” she said.

“The chair?” said Hoopdriver, flushing.

“No – the attitude.”

She came forward and shook hands with him, looking the while curiously into his face. “And – Madam?”

“It’s a habit,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, guiltily. “A bad habit. Calling ladies Madam. You must put it down to our colonial roughness. Out there up country – y’know – the ladies – so rare – we call ‘em all Madam.”

“You HAVE some funny habits, brother Chris,” said Jessie. “Before you sell your diamond shares and go into society, as you say, and stand for Parliament – What a fine thing it is to be a man! – you must cure yourself. That habit of bowing as you do, and rubbing your hands, and looking expectant.”

“It’s a habit.”

“I know. But I don’t think it a good one. You don’t mind my telling you?”

“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 his moustache and then, thinking this might be another habit, checked his arm and stuck his hand into his pocket. He felt juiced awkward, to use his private formula. Jessie’s eye wandered to the armchair, where a piece of binding was loose, and, possibly to carry out her theory of an observant 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 value pins,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, after a perceptible pause. “There weren’t over many pins in Africa. They don’t lie about on the ground there.” His face 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. It fell with a loud ‘ping’ on the fender. Happily she made no remark, being preoccupied with the binding of the chair.

Mr. Hoopdriver, instead of sitting down, went up to the table and stood against it, with his finger-tips upon the cloth. They were keeping breakfast a tremendous time. He took up his rolled serviette looked closely and scrutinisingly at the ring, then put his hand under the fold of the napkin and examined the texture, and put the thing down again. Then he had a vague impulse to finger his hollow wisdom tooth – happily checked. He suddenly discovered he was standing as if the table was a counter, 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, looked again at the breakfast things and then idly lifted the corner of the tablecloth 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 his moustache 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 to see, don’t y’know, whether they’re quite clean or not. It’s got to be a habit.”

“How odd!” said Jessie.

“Isn’t it?” mumbled Hoopdriver.

“If I were a Sherlock Holmes,” said Jessie, “I suppose I could have told you were a colonial from little things like that. But anyhow, I guessed it, didn’t I?”

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

Why not seize the opportunity for a neat confession, and add, “unhappily in this case you guessed wrong.” Did she suspect? Then, at the psychological moment, the girl bumped the door open with her tray and brought 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 to the 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 with his cheek on his hand, watching Jessie pour out the coffee. His ears were a bright red, and his eyes bright. He took his coffee cup clumsily, cleared his throat, suddenly leant back in his chair, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “I’ll do it,” he said aloud.

“Do what?” said Jessie, looking up in surprise over the coffee pot. She was just beginning her scrambled egg.

“Own up.”

“Own what?”

“Miss Milton – I’m a liar.” He put his head on one side and regarded her with a frown of tremendous resolution. Then in measured accents, and moving his head slowly from side to side, he announced, “Ay’m a deraper.”

“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 a draper’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 just another 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 of men 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 that I’m a kind of fool. Well – I wanted somehow to seem more than I was. My name’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 the reminiscences 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 his conscience, anyhow. She regarded him in infinite perplexity. This was a new side altogether to the man. “But WHY,” she began.

“Why did I tell you such things? I don’t know. Silly sort of chap, I expect. I suppose I wanted to impress you. But somehow, now, I want you to 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, as much as anything. I lay awake pretty near all last night thinking about myself; 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 into Parliament, and you’re not – ”

“All Lies,” said Hoopdriver, in a sepulchral voice. “Lies from beginning to 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, completing the confession. Then he pulled his right hand from his pocket, and with the nonchalance of one to whom the bitterness of death is passed, began to drink his coffee.

“It’s a little surprising,” began Jessie, vaguely.

“Think it over,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart.”

And then breakfast proceeded in silence. Jessie ate very little, and seemed lost in thought. Mr. Hoopdriver was so overcome by contrition and anxiety that he consumed an extraordinarily large breakfast out of pure nervousness, and ate his scrambled eggs for the most part with the spoon that belonged properly to the marmalade. His eyes were gloomily downcast. She glanced at him through her eyelashes. Once or twice she struggled 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 what to make of you – brother Chris. I thought, do you know? that you were perfectly 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. But anyhow – 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 quite true.” She suddenly broke out in laughter, at the expression of his face. “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. He looked 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 her humour. 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 too Conventional 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 me likely 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 was as useful a citizen as could be, – it was proposed and carried, – and his lying was of the noblest. And so the breakfast concluded much more happily than his brightest expectation, and they rode out of ruddy little Blandford as though no shadow of any sort had come between them.