That night she remained at a small quiet hotel near Waterloo Station, a
place patronised by third-class passengers 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
glass. 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.
"Is that a new suit, sir?" he asked, scrutinising it.
"Yes, Budd," I replied. "Now, you see what it is. I want to appear
like a working-man," I added confidentially. "The truth is I'm watching
somebody, though, of course, you'll say nothing."
"Of course not, sir," he answered discreetly, for he was a reliable
servant.
Then I took counsel with him how to take off the palpable newness of the
clothes, and he, like the clever valet he was, took them out, and after
a while returned with them greatly improved.
So when dressed in a cheap cotton shirt, a dark red tie, a suit of dark
grey tweed, and a drab cap, I at last looked the typical working-man
from South London wearing his best clothes.
With Budd's ready assistance I slipped out of my chambers into Bolton
Street, and half an hour later arrived by omnibus at the obscure hotel
where Tibbie awaited me.
When she saw me she smiled merrily; and when we were alone together in
the Waterloo Bridge Road she burst out laughing, saying,--
"What an interesting pair we really do make. Your get-up is delightful,
Wilfrid. You look a real compositor. But just put your cap a little on
one side--it's more graceful. What does Budd say?"
"He first thought I'd taken leave of my senses; but I've allayed all his
suspicions."
And so we went jauntily on along the wide road to the Obelisk and then
up the London Road, where the costermongers' barrows were ranged and
hoarse-voiced men were crying their cheap wares to thrifty housewives.
All was strange to her. She knew nothing of working London, and viewed
everything with keen interest. I could not help smiling at her demure
little figure in the cheap black dress.
At the bottom of the London Road we entered a tram and went as far as
Camberwell Gate, the neighbourhood where she had decided to establish
herself as Mrs William Morton.
Leaving the main road we turned down a long, dreary street of uniform
smoke-blackened houses with deep areas in search of a card showing
"apartments to let furnished," and at last discovering one, we ascended
the steps with considerable trepidation and knocked.
"You talk to them," I whispered. "You want three rooms furnished," and
next second the door opened and we were face to face with a big,
red-faced woman whose bloated countenance was certainly due to the undue
consumption of alcohol--probably that spirit so dear to the lower class
feminine palate--Old Tom.
Sybil explained that we were in search of apartments, and we were
conducted up to the second floor and shown three dirty, badly-furnished
rooms, the very sight of which was depressing.
Tibbie's gaze met mine, and then she inquired the price.
"Of course, you'd want the use of the kitchen. That's downstairs,"
replied the woman.
"Oh! there's no kitchen, I see," Tibbie remarked quickly, seizing that
defect as a means of escape from the miserable place. "I'm afraid then
they won't suit us. My husband is always so very particular about
having the kitchen on the same floor."
And then with many regrets we withdrew, and found ourselves once more
out upon the pavement.
House after house we visited, some very poor but clean, others dirty,
neglected and malodorous. Surely there are no more dismal
dwelling-places in England than furnished lodgings in South London.
Through the Boyson and Albany Roads, through Villa Street and Faraday
Street we searched, but discovered no place where Tibbie could possibly
live. Tousled-haired women were mostly the landladies, evil-faced
scowling creatures who drank gin, and talked with that nasal twang so
essentially the dialect of once-rural Camberwell.
At last in Neate Street, a quiet thoroughfare lying between the
Camberwell and Old Kent Roads, we saw a card in the parlour window of a
small house lying back from the street behind a strip of smoke-dried
garden. On inquiry the landlady, a clean, hard-working, middle-aged
woman, took us upstairs, and there we found three cheaply-furnished
rooms with tiny kitchen all bearing the hall-mark of the hire system.
The woman, who seemed a respectable person, told us that she had been a
parlour-maid in the employ of a lady at Kensington, and her husband was
foreman in a mineral-water factory in the neighbourhood.
Tibbie was struck with the woman's homely manner. She was from
Devonshire, and the way she spoke of her own village showed her to be a
true lover of the country.
"My husband, Mr Morton, is a compositor on a newspaper in Fleet Street
and is always away at nights," Tibbie explained. "We've been married
nearly a year. I, too, was in service--a lady's-maid."
"Ah! I thought you 'ad been," replied the landlady, whose name was
Williams. "You speak so refined."
So after re-examining the rooms Tibbie seated herself in the wicker
armchair of the little parlour, and leaning back suggested that we
should engage the apartments.
To this I, of course, agreed, and having given Mrs Williams half a
sovereign as deposit, we left promising to take possession with our
personal belongings--that same evening.
Outside, Tibbie expressed herself well pleased.
"I rather like that woman. She's honest and genuine, I'm sure," she
declared. "Now I must buy a second-hand trunk and some clothes suited
to my station as your humble and obedient wife," she laughed.
So we went through into the Old Kent Road, and there purchased two big
old travelling trunks, into which we afterwards placed the parcels which
she had purchased at a cheap draper's. Then, just before dusk, we
returned to our new abode and entered into possession. We had tea
together, prepared for us by Mrs Williams.
"You really make a model husband, Wilfrid," she laughed when we were
alone, holding her cup in her hand. "I suppose you'll have to go to
work very soon. I wonder what time compositors go to work at night?"
"I haven't the ghost of an idea," I declared. "I must find out. I
suppose about seven or eight. But," I added, "I hope you will be
comfortable, and that you won't be too dull."
"I shall work," she said. "I'll keep the rooms clean and dusted, and
when I've got nothing to do there's always needlework."
"We must pretend to be very frugal, you know," I urged. "A compositor's
wages are not high."
"Of course. Leave that to me. You'll have to buy some more clothes. A
Sunday suit, for instance, and a pair of squeaky boots."
She had made no mention of the affair in Charlton Wood, but on the
excuse that she might be lonely when I had left her, she had bought both
the morning and evening papers, although as yet she had not glanced at
them.
Besides posing as William Morton I had much else to do, and many
inquiries to make. I intended to lose no time in ascertaining who was
the man living on Sydenham Hill, and whether he had any acquaintance
with the dead unknown.
For quite an hour we were alone in the rather cosy little parlour, the
blind down and the gas lit. The furniture was indeed a strange contrast
to that at Ryhall, yet the couple of wicker armchairs were decidedly
comfortable, and the fire gave out a pleasant warmth as we sat near it.
"Ours is a curious position, Wilfrid, isn't it?" she whispered at last,
looking at me with those wonderful eyes of hers.
"What would the world think if they knew the truth?"
"If they knew the truth," she said, seriously, "they would admire you
for your self-sacrifice in assisting a helpless woman. Yet it is really
very amusing," and Tibbie, so well known and popular in the smart set of
London, leaned back and smiled.
I was about to refer to the mystery of her flight, yet I hesitated.
There was time for that, I thought, when she was more settled in her
hiding-place.
It was certainly a novel experience to pose as the husband of Tibbie--
the gay, merry, vivacious Tibbie Burnet, who was the life and soul of
the go-ahead set in which she moved, and as we sat chatting we had many
a good laugh over the ludicrous situation in which we found ourselves.
"You'll have to pretend, in any case, to be very fond of me," she
laughed.
"I suppose I ought to call you `dear' sometimes," I remarked humorously.
"Yes, dear," she responded, with the final word accentuated. "And I
shall call you William--my dear Willie."
"And what am I to call you?"
"Oh! Molly would be a good name. Yes. Call me Molly," and she held
her new wedding ring before my eyes with a tantalising laugh.
"We shall have to be very careful to keep up the fiction," I said.
"These people will, no doubt, watch us at first."
"I shall soon make friends of Mrs Williams," she said. "Leave that to
me. I can be circumspect enough when occasion requires. But--oh--I'd
so love to smoke a cigarette."
"A cigarette!" I cried, horrified; "women don't smoke in this
neighbourhood. Whatever you do, don't smoke when I'm not here, they'll
smell it at once."
"Yes," she sighed. "The ideas of the poor people are quite different to
ours, aren't they?" she reflected.
At that moment there was a tap at the door, and the landlady begged
leave to introduce her husband, a rather tall, well-set-up man with a
closely-cropped dark beard.
He greeted me pleasantly, and expressed a hope that we should be
comfortable.
"The missis will do all she can for Mrs Morton, I'm sure," she said.
"I hear you're on night-work."
"Yes, unfortunately," I said, "our work is mostly at night, you know--
getting ready the next day's paper."
He was affable from the first, and apparently entirely unsuspicious, for
he sent his wife downstairs for a jug of ale, and I was compelled to
take a glass with him in order to cement our acquaintanceship, after
which he and his wife discreetly withdrew with, I hope, the opinion that
we were "a very nice, quiet couple."
At eight o'clock I took leave of Tibbie after we had had a supper of
cold meat. She rather missed her dinner, but assured me that she would
soon get used to dining in the middle of the day. Then, after seeing
that she was quite comfortable, and that the locks on the doors acted, I
shook hands with her.
"Good-bye, Willie dear," she laughed. "Come home early, won't you?"
"Of course," I replied, echoing her laugh, and then as William Morton I
went out to my work.
Walking through Trafalgar Road I found myself in the Old Kent Road, and
presently hailing a hansom I drove as far as Piccadilly Circus, where I
alighted and went on foot to my rooms.
As I entered Eric Domville came to the door of my sitting-room to meet
me. He had been awaiting my return.