nearer to her to see if she sobbed for
weeping or for want of
breath. "What are we to do now?" 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. "Do you know," she said, "I am not afraid of you. I am
sure you are honest to me. And I do not even know your name!"
He was taken with a sudden shame of his
homely patronymic. "It's
an ugly name," he said. "But you are right in
trusting me. I
would--I would do anything for you. . . . This is nothing."
She caught at her
breath. She did not care to ask why. But
compared with Bechamel!--"We take each other on trust," she said.
"Do you want to know--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 mind why. A
stepmother--Idle,
unoccupied, hindered,
cramped, that is enough, perhaps. Then he came into my life, and
talked to me of art and
literature, and set my brain on fire. I
wanted to come out into the world, 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
describe her--"
"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 of
Bechamel 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't
wander 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 your brother, MISS BEAUMONT."
"Yes?"
"We could stop there together--"
She took a minute to answer. "I am going to light these lamps,"
said Hoopdriver. He bent down to his own, and struck a match on
his shoe. She looked at his face in its light, grave and
intent.
How could she ever have thought him common or absurd?
"But you must tell me your name--brother," she said,
"Er--Carrington," said Mr. Hoopdriver, after a
momentary pause.
Who would be Hoopdriver on a night like this?
"But the Christian name?"
"Christian name? MY Christian name. Well--Chris." He snapped his
lamp and stood up. "If you will hold my machine, I will light
yours," he said.
She came round obediently and took his machine, and for a moment
they stood 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?" she said, with a laugh to break the
intensity.
He opened his mouth and shut it again, and, with a sudden wincing
of his features,
abruptly" target="_blank" title="ad.突然地;粗鲁地">
abruptly turned and bent down to open the
lantern in front of her machine. She looked down at him, almost
kneeling in front of her, with an
unreasonable approbation in her
eyes. It was, as I have indicated, the hour and season of the
full moon.
XXV
Mr. Hoopdriver conducted the rest of that night's journey with
the same
confidentdignity as before, and it was
chiefly by good
luck and the fact that most roads about a town converge
thereupon, that Chichester was at last attained. It seemed at
first as though
everyone had gone to bed, but the Red Hotel still