Meanwhile, Gilbert Byfield had started himself for the scene of operations. A telegram had flashed down, addressed to Bessie; a telegram had flashed back eagerly in reply; and here he was on his way to Fiddler's Green. And all the thoughts he had tended in one direction.
"I did it for the girl, and for her alone. Ask yourself, Byfield, if there's anyone in the world like her; ask yourself if you've ever met anyone cut out of the living heart of life as she is; compare her with any woman you have ever seen. Be strong, man; cut the knot yourself, and get her out of the net in which you're both involved. Think of her—and think of yourself; nothing else matters."
His mind was pretty clearly made up as to what he should do by the time the train drew in at the platform at Fiddler's Green, and he was looking about to see if by chance someone had come to meet him.
CHAPTER IX
AND THE PRINCESS TIES IT AGAIN
DISAPPOINTMENT sat heavily on the face of Gilbert Byfield as an obsequious porter who knew him pulled open the door of the carriage and seized his bag. For there was no one with a familiar face in sight on the little platform; and Gilbert had rather hoped that there might have been someone with a smile to welcome him, and a hand to clasp his own.
Few passengers ever get out at Fiddler's Green, and on this occasion there was only a stout and heavy farmer, and an elderly woman with a plethoric basket. True, at the end of the platform was a young girl in a white dress, and with a slim and pretty figure; but young girls in white dresses were nothing to Gilbert Byfield at that moment. He followed the porter gloomily, muttering something to the effect that he supposed he'd better have the fly.
It was only when he was actually giving up his ticket that he found himself face to face with the girl in the white dress; and then discovered that he was holding her hands, and gazing at her—and that it was Bessie, half laughing and half crying, and saying again and again how glad she was to see him. And all in a moment the sun was shining, and Fiddler's Green was beautiful; and the fly was a musty affair, good enough to carry on his bag to the house, but not to be ridden in under any circumstances.
They went on a little shyly and happily down the long road that led from the station towards the house. Once or twice she looked at him as he strode along beside her; and she laughed with the conscious shyness of a child, and yet with complete happiness. Presently, when it came about that a turn of the road hid them from the sight of the station or of any houses beyond, she slipped her hand into his; and so held it, as a child might have done, while they walked on side by side. And then it was that the problem he had to face loomed large, and asked fierce questions of the man, and would not be denied. Questions hard to answer, with that happy face beside him, and with those clear eyes looking up into his own. He found himself wishing passionately that the time might never come when those eyes should change, or should look at him with any indignation or any sorrow. Which might well happen, as he knew.