Part 13 (1/2)
”Well--only--only that I wish you were my real husband,” she answered frankly. ”If you were, then I should fear nothing. But it cannot be--I know that.”
”What do you fear, Tibbie?” I asked, very seriously. ”Tell me--do tell me.”
”I--I can't--I can't now,” was her nervous response in a harder voice, turning her gaze away from mine. ”If I did, you would withdraw your help--you would not dare to risk your own reputation and mine, as you are now doing, just because we are old boy-and-girl friends.”
On we went through the streaming downpour along Chancery Lane and the Strand, the driver lowering the window, for the rain and mud were beating into our faces.
”Well,” I said, ”and what do you suggest doing?”
”To-night I must disappear. I shall sleep in some obscure hotel across the water, and to-morrow you must call for me, and we'll go together to fix upon our future `home.'” Then she inquired eagerly what impression her absence had produced at Ryhall, and I told her.
For a time she remained serious and thoughtful. Her countenance had changed.
”Then Mason came back, as I ordered her?”
”Yes,” I answered, ”but won't she miss those things of hers you are now wearing?”
”No. Because they were in a trunk that she had packed ready to send up to town. She won't discover they've gone for some weeks, I feel sure.”
She described her night run from Chichester to Bournemouth, how she had escaped from Mason, taken train direct up to Birmingham, remained that night at the Grand, then went on to Leicester, where she had spent a day, arriving in London that evening at seven o'clock. In Bull Street, Birmingham, she had been recognised by a friend, the wife of an alderman, and had some difficulty in explaining why she was there alone.
Our present position was not without its embarra.s.sments. I looked at the pretty woman who was about to pose as my wife, and asked,--
”And what name shall we adopt? Have you thought of one?”
”No. Let's see,” she said. ”How about Morton--Mr and Mrs William Morton?”
”All right, then after to-morrow I shall be known as William Morton, compositor?”
”And I shall be your very loving and devoted wife,” she laughed, her eyes dancing. ”In any case, life in Camberwell will be an entirely new experience.”
”Yes,” I said. ”I only hope we sha'n't be discovered. I must be careful--for I shall be compelled to lead a double life. I may be followed one day.”
”Yes, but it is for my sake, Wilfrid,” she exclaimed, placing her small trembling hand upon my arm. ”Remember that by doing this you are saving my life. Had it not been for you I should have been dead three days ago. My life is entirely in your hands. I am in deadly peril,” she added, in a low, desperate whisper. ”You have promised to save me--and you will, Wilfrid--I know you will!”
And she gripped my arm tightly, and looked into my face.
Notwithstanding her a.s.sumed gaiety of manner, she was in terror.
Was that dead, white face still haunting her--the face of the stranger who had, in secret, fallen by her hand?
CHAPTER TEN.
EXPLAINS CERTAIN IMPORTANT FACTS.
That night she remained at a small quiet hotel near Waterloo Station, a place patronised by third-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers from the West of England, and at ten o'clock next morning I called for her.
To disguise oneself as a working-man is no easy matter. I had experienced one difficulty which I had not foreseen, namely, how to allay the suspicions of my man, Budd, when he found me going out in the cheap clothes and hat I had purchased at an outfitter's in the Lambeth Road on the previous night.
On getting up I dressed myself in them, and then examined myself in the gla.s.s. I cut a figure that was, in my eyes, ridiculous. The suit bore a stiff air and odour of newness that was tantalising, yet I saw no way of altering it, save by pressing out the creases, and with that object I called Budd, who first looked me up and down, and then regarded me as though I had taken leave of my senses.