THE PRINCE CUTS THE KNOT
A DULL week in that civilization to which he obstinately refused to
be accustomed brought Gilbert Byfield back again--naturally, as it
seemed--to Arcadia Street. It had been a week spent practically between
three points of a compass which represented Enid and her mother--the
club--and his rooms. A fourth point, of a smaller sort, was represented
by Mr. Jordan Tant, who hovered about him anxiously, and wondered
without disguise why the man had ever come back at all.
Jordan Tant had made one or two remarks concerning the strange
little shabby girl of Arcadia Street, but had found, something to
his annoyance, that Gilbert appeared to take no interest whatever in
that matter, and was quite indifferent to anything that might be said
concerning it. Tant groaned in spirit at the thought that after all
Gilbert had returned to the ways of the world to which he belonged, and
that in due course Mr. Tant would be an interested spectator at some
such place as St. George's, Hanover Square, what time Gilbert Byfield
held the willing Enid by the hand.
Yet, as has been said, within a week Gilbert disappeared again--turning
into Arcadia Street, appropriately dressed for it, late on a warm
evening just as the lamps were being lighted. He had kept his rooms,
paying for them some time in advance; he put his key in the lock, and
opened the door, and went up. Lighting the gas in the shabby little
place, he saw that everything was just as he had left it, and nodded
slowly with satisfaction. While he was still looking about him, his
landlady bustled in to give him welcome, and to ask if there was
anything he required. He told her that there was nothing he wanted that
night, and somewhat curtly dismissed her when he saw that she was on
the point of beginning to relate some piece of news that was doubtless
of tremendous interest to her, if not to him. She went away, and he was
left alone.
Scarcely five minutes had elapsed when there came a quick thud at
the door, and it was opened unceremoniously enough. Looking round
frowningly, Gilbert saw before him the thick-set figure of the man
Simon Quarle--that man who lived at the house next door, and who had
once thrust himself so unwarrantably upon Gilbert in the garden. The
man was hat-less, and his strong almost scowling face was thrust
forward with its habitual bullying look.
"Good evening!" said Quarle abruptly, as he closed the door.
"Good evening!" replied Gilbert, not very graciously. "You wish to
speak to me?"
"I do; I've come up for that purpose. At the time I'm living just below
you."
"In this house?" Gilbert stared at him in some astonishment.
Simon Quarle nodded. "In this house," he said. "I didn't want to go
far when I left next door, and I found that they had a couple of rooms
vacant here. Nothing like so comfortable--but it serves."
"But why have you left next door?" asked Gilbert, after a pause.
"I left next door, if you wish to know, because next door left me,"
retorted Quarle. "You've been away, so I suppose you don't know. The
Meggisons have gone."
"Yes--I know that; I understood that they were going--into the country.
But that's no reason why you should leave, surely?"
"I can't very well live in an empty house with no furniture," snapped
Quarle, sitting down and rubbing his hands slowly backwards and
forwards on his knees. "At least--I don't intend to, while there are
furnished rooms to be had."
"Empty house? . . . no furniture? I'm afraid I don't understand," said
Gilbert slowly, and yet with an uncomfortable feeling in his mind that
he did understand after all. "Will you please tell me plainly what has
happened to my little friend--our little friend--Bessie?"
Simon Quarle stopped rubbing his knees for a moment, and frowned. "I
don't exactly know why you should feel yourself privileged to call her
'Bessie'; I've known her longer than you have, and I'm older than you
are. However, that's neither here nor there. The plain fact of it is
that that arch tippler and shuffler, Daniel Meggison, has suddenly come
into some money--or made some money--or stolen some money. He boasts
that for the rest of his natural days he need not do any work (not that
he has ever done any to my knowledge before)--and that he is going
to live like a lord in the country--for the sake of his daughter. The
letting of lodgings being quite out of the question for such a man in
such a position, the house and all the crazy furniture has been sold
up--and the family's gone."
Gilbert Byfield stood at his desk, looking down at it, and fingering
the papers upon it in an aimless fashion. He saw clearly enough the
position in which he was placed; understood only too well that Mr.
Daniel Meggison had decided to play that great game of make-believe in
the grand manner, being certain in his own mind that Gilbert Byfield
would hesitate to stop him. The pretty fiction which Gilbert had
himself invented must be kept alive until such time as Daniel Meggison
decided he had had his fling, and was prepared to come back to the
sober things of life. That at least was Gilbert's first thought.
"I suppose, Mr. Quarle, our friend Meggison did not happen to mention
to you what sum of money he had secured--did he?"
"I couldn't get a word out of him as to that--nor could I discover in
what particular investments he had been interesting himself," replied
Simon Quarle. "It struck me as somewhat peculiar that a man of that
type should suddenly come into money--by his own judicious speculation.
In other words, Mr. Byfield, there's a mystery about it."
"Well--at all events it doesn't concern me," said Gilbert, a little
coldly; for he was not inclined to give his confidence to this abrupt
bullying man who had so unceremoniously invaded his rooms.
"No--of course not," retorted Quarle. "How should it concern you? In
a sense, you know, Mr. Byfield," he went on, with a slyness that was
ominous--"I'm sorry for you. Things have been taken out of your hands a
little; you haven't been able to do quite what you desired--have you?"
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand," said Gilbert, turning over
the few letters that were on his table, and idly picking up one, the
handwriting of which was unfamiliar.
"The night I caught you trespassing you declared to me that you wanted
to help the girl--to do something for her."
"Well--and I didn't succeed. What then?" Gilbert glanced up at him with
an impatient frown.
"Very strange that it should happen that within a matter of days of
that time her father--penniless ne'er-do-well--should suddenly come
into money--eh?"
"A mere curious coincidence," responded the other quietly. "You'll
excuse me?" He indicated the letter he held, and Simon Quarle nodded.
Gilbert ripped open the envelope, letting it fall to the floor as he
unfolded the letter. Mr. Simon Quarle stooped forward politely and
picked up the envelope; let his eyes glance across it for a moment as
he laid it carefully on the desk. Then he sat with his hands on his
knees, and with his head thrust forward, looking out of half-closed
eyes at the man who was reading the letter.
The letter was from Bessie. It was a grateful, passionate, almost
childish thing--written to a friend who would understand her great new
happiness; and as he read it the man's face relaxed into a smile, and
his heart softened. After all, the cost was nothing, as compared with
this fine fruit; the game might go on for some time longer at least.
She was a child, with the heart and mind of a child unspoiled; and it
had been strangely given to him to have the power of bringing her into
a world where for the first time she tasted joy--where for the first
time she appeared to be radiantly happy. Yes--the cost was nothing.
His musings were cut short by the dry, hard voice of Simon Quarle. "So
she writes to you?" he said.
Gilbert looked round at him, visibly annoyed. "How do you know that?"
he demanded.
Simon Quarle pointed a finger at the envelope he had placed on the
desk. "I know the writing," he replied. "The weekly bills used to be
made out by her; I've got dozens of 'em. Well--there's nothing to be
offended about; how's she getting on?"
There was a curious note of wistfulness--almost a note of jealousy
in the man's tones; he seemed to rage at the thought that this other
man could have a letter from her that brought a softening smile
to his face, whilst he--that older friend Simon Quarle--sat there
empty-handed. The world was a bitter place just then, and he resented
its bitterness more than usual.
"She's well--and she's very happy," said Gilbert grudgingly.
"Anything about her dear father?"
"Father also appears to be very well--though nothing is said about his
particular happiness," replied the younger man, with a glance at the
letter. "You will be interested also perhaps to learn that Aubrey
finds the country somewhat dull . . . but perhaps you're not interested
in Aubrey?"
"I am not," replied Quarle. "I don't know that I'm particularly
interested in anyone except the girl." He got up, and moved across the
room, with his hands clasped behind his back; stopped without looking
round, and put a question. "How long, Mr. Byfield, does this precious
fortune last?"
"How in the world should I know?" demanded Gilbert, more savagely than
he intended. "You'd better ask Meggison; he knows all about it. And may
I suggest, Mr. Quarle, that I'm busy, and would rather be alone?"
Simon Quarle turned slowly, and walked towards the door; stopped there,
and looked over his shoulder back at Gilbert. "I'm sorry, Mr. Byfield,"
he said, in a tone that was singularly gentle--"I'm sorry that you find
it necessary to remind me that I'm not wanted; I'm more sorry still
that you shut me out, not only from your room but from your secrets.
Good night to you!"
"Stop!" cried Gilbert quickly, as the hand of the other man was upon
the door. "Come back, please; let there be no misunderstanding about
this. I have not meant to offend you in any way; I did not mean to be
abrupt. But you must not connect me in any way with this matter."
The other man came slowly back into the room, and stood for a moment
or two with his head bent, and his hands clasped behind him, and the
toe of one boot grinding slowly into the carpet. Without looking up he
said at last--"I'm an older man than you are, Byfield--and I know what
a beastly world we live in, from some points of view. Talk to me of
Meggison or his worthless son, and I don't care a snap of the fingers;
tell me about this girl, and the old blood in me fires up as it might
have done if it had ever been ordained that I should have a child of my
own. That's foolish, I know--but for once it happens to come straight
from my heart. I have a love for her that I have for nothing else on
God's earth; and I can't stand by now, and see her in all innocence
rushing on to a place where the feet of a stronger woman might not
tread. Do you or do you not understand for one moment what you're
doing?"
"I think so," said Gilbert quietly.
"I don't think you do. As I understand it, you've cheated this
girl--tried to draw her to you by a beggarly underhand payment of
pounds shillings and pence. That's nothing to you, and you can keep it
up for a long time; but where's it going to end? Who's going to tell
her the truth--you or I?"
They faced each other in the shabby room--white-faced. "What do you
mean by the truth?" asked Byfield at last.
"The truth--that your money buys the clothes she wears and the food she
eats; that every copper she drops into the hand of a beggar is so much
of your money. Who is to tell her that?" Simon Quarle did not flinch as
he stood waiting for his answer.
"You put the thing crudely, Mr. Quarle," said Gilbert at last. "I admit
that on the face of it the thing may be reduced to that; you have
surprised my secret, and you probably know as well as I do that I am
paying the small sum of money for this little whim--which pleases me
and can do no harm to anyone else. Stop--don't interrupt me; I repeat
that it can do no harm to anyone else, while on the other hand it may
do a great deal of good. The money is nothing to me--what it can buy
means a great deal to her."
"But the end--the end of it!" persisted Quarle. "What of that?"
"Let the end take care of itself," replied Gilbert. "I would not have
said so much as this to any other man; but I do you the justice to
believe that you are honestly very fond of her, and that you would do
a great deal on your own account to help her. Therefore I say that for
the present the matter must be left where it is."
"What was the original intention in your mind--apart from merely
helping her; what did you purpose doing?" demanded Quarle.
"I planned a holiday for the girl--and God knows she needed it badly.
Our friend Meggison probably--certainly misunderstood me."
"Exactly." Quarle nodded slowly, and grinned. "It was the purpose of
our friend Meggison to misunderstand you," he said. "Meggison, for the
first time in his life, finds a rich man with a soft spot in his heart;
it is a chance not to be missed. He proceeds to lie to everyone; to his
daughter, who believes in him completely--to others only too willing to
believe him. He displays some money; he has a house in the country to
which he is to go---- By the way--that house in the country?"
"Is mine," said Gilbert. "I originally intended that Meggison should
take the girl down there for a few weeks; that they should then return
to their own house. You know for yourself what he has done."
"The question is not so much what he has done as what you are going to
do," said the other. "The bubble must burst some day, you know."
Gilbert Byfield picked up the letter again, and looked at it
attentively; turned to the other man, and tapped the paper with a
forefinger. "She's very well--and very happy," he said slowly. "Think
of that, Quarle: for the first time in all her short life she is very
well and very happy. I say to you--to the devil with your conventions
and your laws--your prejudices and what not; this child is happy. I
think you know in your heart that I shall do her no harm; in mercy
let her remain where she is, for a little time at least, until I can
decide what is to be done. Would you drag her back here again to
slave for that drunken father and that lout of a brother; to face
semi-starvation, and bills and duns, and every other sordid item that
her life should never have known? Would you do that, Quarle?"
"Yes--I would," replied the other stoutly. "And keep her honest."
"She'll keep honest on her own account," said Gilbert. "For the
present, I tell you the thing must remain as it is. Meggison won't
speak, for his own sake; you won't speak--unless you want to break her
heart."
"I'll promise nothing," said Quarle angrily. "You think you've got me
in a corner so that I can't move--but I'll find a way to tell the truth
without hurting her--or if I do hurt her a little it'll only be for
her good. Oh--I wish I could make you understand what you're doing!"
"I tell you the thing was begun innocently enough," replied Gilbert.
"I'm not responsible for what has happened--except that I ought to have
known what kind of man Meggison was, and so have been prepared. For the
present the thing must stand--and you must be silent."
"It shan't stand an hour longer than I can prevent," was Simon Quarle's
final declaration as he went away.
Gilbert Byfield, reviewing the matter carefully so far as it had gone,
was disposed first to be righteously indignant, and then to be amused.
That which he had done on the mere quick generous impulse of the moment
had suddenly turned into something so enormous, and yet so cunningly
devised, that he did not quite see how he was to get out of it; on the
other hand, the sheer audacity of it held his unwilling admiration
even against his better judgment. At one moment he told himself that
he must honestly and frankly declare what had happened, and must set
himself right in the eyes of the girl; the next he saw that to do that
would be to break down her self-respect completely, and to strip old
Daniel Meggison of whatever virtues he possessed in the eyes of his
daughter--both clearly possible. Therefore, not knowing what to do, he
adopted what seemed to be the wisest course--and did nothing at all.
Arcadia Street having grown distasteful, alike because there was no
Bessie Meggison next door, and because the stern face of Mr. Simon
Quarle fronted him now and then on the staircase and in the street,
he determined once more to go back to his own ordinary mode of life,
at least for a week or two; and so came again in touch with Mr. Jordan
Tant and the rest. If he thought at all of what might be happening at
Fiddler's Green, he steadfastly strove to banish the matter from his
mind, and told himself that in that he had succeeded. Nevertheless he
was restless and unhappy; and his spirit hovered, as it were, in waking
and sleeping moments alike, between Arcadia Street and Fiddler's Green,
Sussex.
A fortnight later found him back again in Arcadia Street--there to
discover another letter from Bessie, gently suggesting that he might
have found time to write to her, and with a little general note of
wistfulness in it that tugged at his heartstrings. Almost he determined
to go down and see her; yet knew full well that he dared not do that,
for the simple reason that he could not face those clear eyes and look
into their depths. At last he told himself that he would get to work
there in Arcadia Street, and would leave the problem to work itself out.
Like most problems it was destined to work itself out in a wholly
unexpected fashion. It began to work itself out the very next day, with
the arrival of Mr. Simon Quarle, who came in quickly, and closed the
door, and looked at Byfield with a face of gloom. Gilbert waved his
hand towards a chair to indicate that this unceremonious guest should
sit down.
"Well--I've been to Fiddler's Green," was Quarle's first utterance, as
he seated himself, and squared his shoulders, and frowned at his host.
"You at Fiddler's Green? What for?"
"To see for myself what was going on; to understand for myself how the
Meggisons stand riches," said Quarle, evidently in a great state of
grim triumph. "I've seen them--talked with them--been snubbed by one at
least of them. Would you like to hear about it?"
"How's the girl?--how's Bessie?" asked Gilbert.
"Oh--I grant you'd be pleased with her," retorted Quarle grudgingly.
"As pretty as a picture--and with a smile in her eyes for the first
time. But the other two! The dogs--the scorpions--the blood-suckers!"
"Steady! I'm sure there's nothing to get excited about. What have they
done to you?"
"I stand for nothing--and I don't complain," replied Quarle. "But when
I see that snivelling lounger Daniel Meggison cutting a dash, sir,
in a hired carriage--when I see that ardent billiard-room enthusiast
Aubrey Meggison cutting an absurd figure about the country lanes on a
hired hack, and slapping his leg with a riding whip in the bar of the
local inn--when I think of the bills that are running up, and the price
there'll be to pay--plus the necessary explanations----"
"That will do, thank you, Quarle," said Gilbert, with a new gravity
upon him. "I'll go down there at once; I've delayed too long. I give
you my word I didn't think it was coming to this--I thought at least
they'd have the decency to be quiet."
"Decency, sir, is a word they don't understand. Only I tell you I'm
bitterly sorry for the girl. If I could in any way drown father and
son, or smother them, or get rid of them somehow, I'd cheerfully do it,
if it would keep her in ignorance of the truth. One word, Byfield:
you've got to be mighty careful, because either Daniel Meggison or
the boy is mean enough, if the game appears to be up, to tell the
truth--and not to tell it with too nice a tongue. Be careful."
Gilbert Byfield had crossed the room and had taken up a railway guide.
There was a look of decision about him that impressed Simon Quarle.
While the young man was busily fluttering the pages the door was
opened, and Mr. Jordan Tant sauntered in, as immaculate-looking as
ever. He glanced at the sturdy figure of Simon Quarle, and then looked
across at Byfield; coughed to attract the latter's attention.
Gilbert turned and looked at him. "Hullo, Tant," he exclaimed. "I'm
sure I'm very glad to see you. Let me make you known to my friend--Mr.
Simon Quarle."
The two nodded distantly after the introduction, and Tant stood
awkwardly while Gilbert still fluttered the pages. At last Gilbert
flung the book aside petulantly, and crossed over to his friend, and
shook hands with him.
"What's brought you to Arcadia Street?" he asked.
"Well, as a matter of fact, my dear Gilbert, I do not come exactly
on my own account, but for somebody else," responded Mr. Tant. "Mrs.
Ewart-Crane wanted a message conveyed to you, and I couldn't think of
your number, although, as I told her, I knew the house when once I got
into this beastly locality. Consequently, here I am."
"My friend Mr. Tant doesn't like Arcadia Street," said Gilbert, turning
to Simon Quarle.
"The young gentleman doesn't look as if he did," retorted Quarle, with
a curling lip.
"What I always say is, 'Let us draw the line,'" said Mr. Tant severely.
"However, my dear Gilbert, the message is this. The old lady--(by
which term, of course, I refer not at all discourteously to Mrs.
Ewart-Crane)--the old lady is anxious to get away into the country;
thinks Enid is not looking well, and so forth."
"I'm sorry," said Gilbert absently. "But what can I do?"
"There's that beautiful place of yours that you leave empty so
much--down at Fiddler's Green. Now, if you could let her have that----"
"I can't; it's quite out of the question," broke in Gilbert harshly,
with a glance at Simon Quarle.
"But, my dear Gilbert, she seems quite set on it," urged Mr. Tant.
"There can be no reason----"
"The reason is, young gentleman, that the house is full already," said
Simon Quarle. "Full of people, I mean."
"You must understand, Tant," said Gilbert, without looking at him,
"that I've lent the house to some friends of mine--for a time. Tell
Mrs. Ewart-Crane that I'm sorry; under any other circumstances I should
have been delighted."
"Oh, very well, my dear Byfield," said Mr. Tant. Then, as a thought
occurred to him, he suggested quickly--"Perhaps after your friends have
left--gone away from the house----"
"Mr. Byfield doesn't quite know when that's going to happen," said
Simon Quarle maliciously. "These friends are down there as a sort of
permanent arrangement--stop-as-long-as-they-like sort of thing."
"You seem to know a great deal about it," replied Tant, in his precise
tones.
"I do; I've just been to see them," Simon Quarle answered, with a grim
laugh. "The sort of guests, young gentleman, that you don't get rid of
in a hurry, I can assure you."
Gilbert plunged into the dangerous conversation hurriedly. "I don't
think anything more need be said, Mr. Quarle," he exclaimed. "If you'll
excuse me now, there are things I want to talk to Mr. Tant about. Good
day to you!"
Simon Quarle got up, and walked to the door of the room; turned there,
and spoke with characteristic bluntness. "Sorry if I've hurt anybody's
feelings," he said. "Of course, it's no business of mine."
He was gone, and the two younger men faced each other. It is safe to
say that Jordan Tant had always at the back of his mind one thought
dominating all others; the thought of Enid. The fact that Byfield had
gruffly refused even to consider the suggestion that the house should
be lent to her and her mother set the man's wits to work; the fact that
another man who obviously lived in Arcadia Street knew all about the
strange occupants of that house at Fiddler's Green stirred into being
a process commonly known as "putting two and two together." Mr. Jordan
Tant did some hard thinking.
"Please explain to Mrs. Ewart-Crane why I can't let her have the
house--and make my apologies!" said Gilbert after a pause.
"I will certainly do that--when I know what to say," said Tant,
putting his head on one side, and looking at his friend with a smile.
"My dear Gilbert--who have you been giving away your property to?"
"I have not been giving it away at all," retorted Gilbert. "I've simply
lent the house to some friends. Say no more about it."
Mr. Jordan Tant said no more about it. After an awkward pause he made a
remark, which in the connection was certainly startling. "By the way,
Gilbert, I noticed as I came into this house that your little friend
next door--the Princess, as you called her--has flitted."
Byfield, startled, swung round upon him. "And pray what the devil do
you think that's got to do with Fiddler's Green?" he demanded savagely.
Jordan Tant fairly leapt in his astonishment. "Really--I never said----
Why, Gilbert--you don't mean to say that you've sent her down to
Fiddler's Green?"
All this interference with what he had come to regard as his private
plans began to have a maddening effect upon Gilbert Byfield. He had
savagely to acknowledge to himself that he had failed; that that
impulsive generosity of which he had been guilty had been taken
advantage of by those in whose hands he was practically powerless. The
thought of that did not tend to mend his temper; and Tant was a handy
victim. Byfield squared his shoulders, and set his hands on his hips,
and gazed down at the shrinking little man with blazing eyes.
"And suppose I have sent her to Fiddler's Green--and suppose I intend
to keep her there just as long as it pleases me--what then, my Tant?"
he bellowed. "What do you, in your secure and comfortable life, hedged
about by every conventionality, and not daring to stir by so much as
a hair's breadth from that line you so often draw and so often talk
about--what do you know of the world and the people who live in it?
Can't a man stretch out the hand of friendship to a woman without your
smug lips opening, and your smooth tongue beginning to bleat this and
that and the other? Must you always think that we're in this world only
to do wrong--that there are no better impulses in any one of us? I'll
tell you now in so many words: the child of the white face and the
shabby frock is down at Fiddler's Green at my expense--and she's having
a holiday. Have you anything to say to that?"
Jordan Tant backed away from him, and waved him off with protesting
hands. "My dear Byfield--I have not said a word about it; it's not my
business," he pleaded. "You have always been in the habit of doing
unconventional things, and I suppose you will do them until the end
of the chapter; but I am not criticizing. It's very kind of you--very
thoughtful--and all that sort of thing. Necessarily one wonders a
little what the world will say--and one is a little sorry for the girl,
who is doubtless quite respectable--in her own sphere of life--and
quite nice."
"I notice everyone's sorry for the girl," retorted Gilbert, a little
bitterly. "I think the girl can take care of herself, and I think, even
if it came to the point where she understood the real truth of the
matter, she would come also to understand my motive."
"Oh, I see; then she doesn't understand yet?" said Tant slowly.
"How the devil could I tell her that I was going to provide her with
money--and a house--and various comforts? You've no delicacy, Tant.
No--I arranged better than that; ostensibly her father is the man
who provides the money; he is supposed to have come into a fortune
unexpectedly. Now are you satisfied?"
"Perfectly," said Jordan Tant, looking at the floor. "It's all very
simple--isn't it?"
Mr. Jordan Tant carried his amazed face out of Arcadia Street, and
back to the other end of London; presented it in due course to Mrs.
Ewart-Crane and to Enid. Suffering himself to be questioned closely, he
refused to speak ill of a friend, but shook his head over that friend
nevertheless; and so had the thing gradually screwed out of him.
"I wouldn't have you think for a moment that I'm saying anything
against poor old Byfield," said Tant gloomily. "What I do think is
that these designing people have got hold of him, and that, to use a
vulgar phrase, they will bleed him pretty heavily unless someone steps
in. He's mad about the girl; but of course he hasn't reckoned with the
family. They'll stick to him like leeches; he'll never be able to shake
them off."
"My dear," said Mrs. Ewart-Crane, turning to her daughter a determined
face--"I think it is about time that we interfered. Apart from
every other consideration, we owe a duty to a friend who, however
wrong-headed he may be, is at least a gentleman. I shall most
certainly step in, and shall understand once for all, if only for
my own satisfaction, what these people intend to do. I dare say a
small cottage or at the worst some rooms are to be obtained somewhere
in Fiddler's Green; we will go down, and see for ourselves what is
happening."
"Personally, mother, I don't think I should interfere," said Enid. "If
Gilbert likes to be so silly it's his affair, and it would be somewhat
undignified on our part to interfere."
"Undignified or not, I intend to do it," retorted Mrs. Ewart-Crane.
"Mr. Tant shall go down and secure a place for us; if I don't have
those people out of Gilbert's house in something under a week, I shall
be very much surprised!"
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.