“Your husband,” I exclaimed, staring at her.
“Yes,” she cried quickly. “To place myself in a position of safety I must first live in a crowded part of London where I can efface my identity; and secondly, for appearances’ sake, as well as for another and much stronger motive, I must have a husband. Will you, Wilfrid, pretend to be mine?”
Her request utterly nonplussed me, and she noticed my hesitation.
“If you will only consent to go into hiding with me I can escape,” she urged, quickly. “You can easily contrive to live in Bolton Street and pose as my husband in another part of the world; while I—well, I simply disappear. There will be a loud hue and cry after me, of course, but when I’m not found, the mater and the others will simply put my disappearance down to my eccentricity. They will never connect us, for you will take good care to be seen in London leading your usual life, and indeed seriously troubled over my disappearance. They will never suspect.”
“But why must you appear to have a husband?” I asked, extremely puzzled.
“I have a reason—a strong one,” she answered, earnestly. “I have enemies, and my hand will be strengthened against them the instant they believe that I have married.”
“That may be so,” I said, dubiously. “But where do you suggest taking up your abode?”
“Camberwell would be a good quarter,” she responded. “There is a large working-class population there. We could take furnished apartments with some quiet landlady. You are a compositor on one of the morning newspapers, and are out at work all night. Sometimes, too, you have to work overtime—I think they call it—and then you are away the greater part of the day also. I don’t want you to tie yourself to me too much, you see,” she added, smiling. “We shall give out that we’ve been married a year, and by your being a compositor, your absence won’t be remarked. So you see you can live in Bolton Street just the same, and pay me a daily visit to Camberwell, just to cheer me up.”
“But surely you could never bear life in a back street, Tibbie,” I said, looking at her utterly bewildered at her suggestion. “You would have to wear print dresses, cook, and clean up your rooms.”
“And don’t you think I know how to do that?” she asked. “Just see whether I can’t act the working-man’s wife if you will only help to save me from—from the awful fate that threatens me. Say you will, Wilfrid,” she gasped, taking my hand again. “You will not desert me now, will you? Remember you are the only friend I dare go to in my present trouble. You will not refuse to be known in Camberwell as my husband—will you?”