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CHAPTER XXXII.

THE WANDERER.

It was half-past ten before Walter alighted from the train at St. Enoch’s Station.  It was a fine dry evening, with a sufficient touch of frost in the air to make walking pleasant.  As he made his way out of the station, and went among the busy crowd, he could not help contrasting that hurrying tide of life with the silence and the solitude he had left.  The experience of the last few hours seemed like a dream, only he was left with that aching at the heart—­that strong sense of personal loss which even a brave man sometimes finds it hard to bear manfully.  For till now he had not realised how near and dear a part of his life was the sweet girl now lost to him for ever.  Although it had often pleased him, in the bitterness of his mood, to say that an inseparable barrier had arisen between them, he had in his heart of hearts not believed it, but cherished the secret and strong hope that their estrangement was but temporary, and that in the end the old days which in their passing had often been shadowed, but which now to memory looked wholly bright and beautiful, would receive their crown.  And now his dream was over, and again he felt himself alone in the world—­more terribly alone than he had yet been.  He was not a vain man, though he believed in his own ability, or, looking back, he might have taken no small comfort from the demeanour of Gladys towards him.  He had not been untouched by it, her womanly tenderness had sunk into his soul; but he saw in it only the natural outcome of a kind heart, which felt always keenly the sorrow of others.  He believed so absolutely in her singleness of heart, her honesty of purpose, that he accepted her decision as final.  Since she had plighted her troth to another, it was all over, so far as Walter himself was concerned.  He knew so little of women that it never occurred to him that sometimes they give such a promise hastily, accepting what is offered from various motives—­very often because what they most desire is withheld.  It must not be thought that in having accepted George Fordyce, Gladys was intentionally and wilfully deceiving him.  His impassioned pleading had touched her heart.  At a time when she was crying out for something to satisfy her need, in an unguarded moment, she had mistaken an awakened, fleeting impression for love, and passed what was now in her eyes an irrevocable word.  She was no coquette, who gives a promise the one day to be carelessly withdrawn the next.  George Fordyce had been fortunate in gaining the promise of a woman whose word was as her bond.  There are circumstances in which even such a bond may become null and void, but Gladys did not dream of the tragedy which was to release her from her vow.

Walter felt in no haste to go home; nay, the very thought of it was intolerable to him.  He saw it all before him, in sharp contrast to another home, which had shown him how lovely wealth and taste can make human surroundings, and he loathed the humble shelter of the old place, which memory hallowed only to wound, and from which the angel of hope had now flown.