Part 40 (2/2)

'You needn't look so resigned, Walter. Just cast your memory back, and think of some of the kind things you have said to me when we have met since I have left Colquhoun Street. If you think I can forget, then you are mistaken. They will always rankle in my mind, and it is only natural that I should feel grateful, if nothing else, to those who are a little kinder and more attentive to me. A woman does not like to be ignored.'

At that moment a servant appeared to say the carriage waited, and Walter held out his hand to say good-bye. Hope was for ever quenched in his heart, and something in his eyes went to the heart of Gladys, and for the moment she could not speak. She turned silently, motioned him to follow her from the room, and then stood in the hall, still silently, till he put on his greatcoat. Woman-like, in the midst of her strange agitation she did not fail to notice that every detail of his attire was in keeping, and that pleased well her fastidious taste. When the servant at last opened the door, the cool wind swept in and ruffled the girl's hair upon her white brow.

'Good-bye, then. You will write?' she said quickly, and longing, she did not know why, to order the servant to withdraw.

'If there is anything to write about, perhaps I will,' he answered, gripped her hand like a vice, and dashed out. Then Miss Graham, quite regardless of the watchful eyes upon her, went out to the outer hall, and her sweet voice sounded through the darkness, 'Good-bye, dear Walter,' and, putting her white fingers to her lips, she threw a kiss after him, and ran into the house, all trembling, and when she reached the drawing-room she dropped upon her knees by a couch and fell to weeping, though she did not know why she wept.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

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 pa.s.sing 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 impa.s.sioned 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances 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.

With his hand in one pocket, his hat drawn a little over his brow, he sauntered, with heavy and reluctant step, up Renfield Street, in the direction of Sauchiehall Street. He did not know what tempted him to choose the opposite direction from his home. We are often so led, apparently aimlessly, towards what may change the very current of our lives. The streets, though quieter as he walked farther West, were by no means deserted, and just on the stroke of eleven the people from the theatres and public-houses made the tide of life flow again, apparently in an endless stream. Quite suddenly, under the brilliant light thrown by the illumination of a fas.h.i.+onable tavern, Walter saw standing on the edge of the pavement, talking to another girl, his sister Liz. He could not believe his eyes at first, for he had never credited the a.s.sertion of Gladys that she had really seen her, but believed it had been a mistake. But there she was, well dressed, stylish, and beautiful exceedingly. Even in that first startled look he was struck by the exquisite outline, of her face, the absolute purity of her colour, except where it burned a brilliant red on her cheeks.

He stepped back into a doorway, and stood silently waiting till they should separate, or move away. To his relief, they, separated at last, the stranger moving towards him, Liz proceeding westward. He followed her, keeping a few steps behind her, watching her with a detective's eye. Once a man spoke to her, but she gave no answer, and somehow that to Walter was a relief. He felt himself growing quite excited, longing to overtake and speak to her, yet afraid. At the corner of Cambridge Street she stood still, apparently looking for a car; then Walter stepped before her, and laid his hand on her arm.

'Liz,' he said, and in spite of himself his voice shook, 'what are you doing here?'

Liz gave a great start, and her pallor vanished, the red mounting high to her brow.

'I--I don't know. It's you, Wat? Upon my word, I didna ken ye; ye are sic a swell.'

'I heard you were in Glasgow, but I didn't believe it. Where have you been all this time?'

'To Maryhill; I'm bidin' there the noo,' Liz answered defiantly, though she was inwardly trembling.

'Maryhill?' Walter repeated, and his eye, sharp with suspicion, dwelt searchingly on her face. 'What are you doing there?'

'That's my business,' she answered lightly. 'I needna ask for you; I see you are flouris.h.i.+n'. Hoo's the auld folk? I say, here's my car.

Guid-nicht.'

She would have darted from him, but he gripped her by the arm.

'You won't go, Liz, till I know where and how you are living. I have the right to ask. Come home with me.'

Liz was surprised, arrested, and the car, with its noisy jingle, swept round the corner.

'Hame wi' you!' she repeated. 'Maybe, if ye kent, ye wadna ask me, wadna speak to me,' she said, with a melancholy bitterness, and then her cough, more hollow and more racking than of yore, prevented further speech.

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