"That is the Parliament clock," she thought; "and he will often hear that sound when he has ceased to hear my voice for ever."
And then she forgot him for awhile and fell to pitying herself, until the tears rolled down her face under her veil, and she found herself at Blackfriars Bridge. This part of the town she knew nothing of. Whither should she go? All ways were alike to her. She kept on to the right, and crossed the bridge.
She had never been across any London bridge on foot before; she could not remember ever having been across the river at all, except in a train. She had never heard either her aunt or him speak about the Surrey side. It was best for her to go across the water, and to stay there.
To stay there! She had not thought of staying anywhere before; she had come away from home because she had made up her mind not to see Charlie again; but up to that moment she had not thought of staying away from home, or staying anywhere else. Before, leaving Tenby Terrace she had mechanically taken all the money out of her writing-case and put it in her purse. She always had much more money by her than young girls living in houses such as those in the Terrace; for she had an income which was absolutely her own, and her aunt had always insisted on her keeping a small bundle of bank-notes by her. Miss Traynor said: "You should always keep a little money by you; I do. You never know what is going to happen. A bank may break, or your lawyer may die, and you may not be able to get your money for a month, or maybe three months; and then, you see, what a fix you would be in! I do not think it safe to keep large sums of money in the house; but twenty or thirty or forty pounds can do no harm, and make you feel secure, for a time at least, against accident." Miss Traynor little thought, when she gave her niece this advice, that the money would in the end be used for putting space between her and the girl for whose welfare and happiness she would have laid down her life.
Now, for the first time. May realised the fact that it would be necessary for her to find some place in which she might live. She had been in her time very little from home, and felt miserably uncomfortable at the notion of having to take lodgings for herself in London. She had no plan, no scheme. She did not think of the future; she did not try to see a week in advance--she wished only to hide herself. She made no calculation as to how long she should be from home, how long her money would last. She had, like a pursued hare, the simple instinct of flight, with the desire for concealment; all else was absolutely indifferent to her. If she had her choice between life and death, she would have chosen the latter.
The idea of leaving London never crossed her mind. She had often heard that, for the purpose of concealment, there was no place so good as London. She had now been walking two hours, and all that time she had been putting space between her and Knightsbridge; and yet all around her were thousands of people, hundreds of vehicles hurrying up and down. There was no fear of anyone being able to track her through all those winding ways, all this streaming multitude.
It was necessary for her to get somewhere to sleep that night. She was now in the Kennington Road. The noise of the tramcars and omnibuses and cabs, and carts and vans and drays, almost overwhelmed her. She was beginning to feel tired. She turned into a quiet-looking side-street; up and down this street she walked more than once before she could make up her mind to knock at any door of a house in which she saw that lodgings were to be let. At last she selected a neat-looking house, with flower-pots on the window-sill and immaculate steps. She knocked. Yes, there were lodgings to be let in that house; would the lady walk in? She was shown into a clean, cheaply-furnished back parlour, which looked into a dark yard twenty feet square. It was the landlady herself who let in May. She was a stout, undersized, pleasant-looking woman of middle age. She had two bedrooms and a sitting-room to let. This was the sitting-room; the bedrooms were up-stairs. Would the lady like to see the bedrooms?--they were comfortable and well furnished. Would not the lady walk up? This was the better bedroom of the two, in the front; this was the smaller one in the back. What accommodation did the lady require? The gentleman could have breakfast and tea or supper in, and dinner of a Sunday. Oh, it wasn't for gentlemen, wasn't it? It was the lady herself? So sorry; but she never took lady lodgers--only gentlemen. Her servant would not stay if lady lodgers were admitted. It was very wrong in a servant to have such notions; but her servant was a very good one, and it was next to impossible to get a good servant, and she could not afford to lose this one. Good-afternoon.
May went down the whitened steps with a heavy heart. She had never tried to find lodgings before; she had not known there was any difficulty in the way of getting them. It was necessary, however, that she should try again. She looked at her watch, half in fear. Half-past seven. Not any time to be lost; it was getting late.
She selected another house in the same street. A tall thin woman, who suggested a remote connection with better days, and a present connection with a temper, opened the door. May's first question was: Did they accommodate lady lodgers in that house? They did. Would the lady like to see the room?
With a sigh of relief May went in. She explained that she wanted only one room--a bedroom. Very well. This way; this was the bedroom. The lady would dine out? Oh yes. May would have undertaken to do anything now, that she might be at liberty to lock the door, sit down by herself and cry. The rent was ten shillings a week, inclusive. May did not know that the room would have been dear at seven-and-six; and of what "inclusive" meant she had no idea. Was ten shillings a week satisfactory? Yes, perfectly. And the lady would pay a week's rent in advance to secure the room? May took out her purse and proffered a sovereign. And when did the lady wish to occupy the room? To-night--now. To-night! How could that be? Of course references should be exchanged. Did the lady know anyone in the immediate vicinity to whom a reference might be made? No, May knew no one in the vicinity. Was it--was it necessary there should be a reference? Oh, absolutely; all respectable houses require references. Ah, in that case May must try elsewhere.