Going through the woods that lie upon his right, he walks silently onward, impressed by the beauty of the swift-coming night, yet too restless in mind to take in all its charms that are rich enough to satisfy a hungry soul. A soft wind is sighing; beneath its touch the young and tender branches are swaying lightly to and fro; all the "feathery people of mid-air" are preening their downy plumage and murmuring sleepy hymns ere sinking to their rest.
Scarce a sound can be heard, save the distant lowing of cattle, and the drowsy drone of a slumberous bee as it floats idly by. The very sound of Dorian's footsteps upon the soft grass can be distinctly heard, so deadly is the calm that ushers in the night; when, lo! from out some thicket, the nightingale,—
"Who is silent all day long;
But when pale eve unseals her clear throat, looses
Her twilight music on the dreaming boughs
Until they waken"—
bursts into song. High and clear and exquisite rise the notes one above the other, each vying in beauteous harmony with the last, until one's very heart aches for love and admiration of their sweetness.
Dorian, though oppressed with many discordant thoughts, still pauses to listen, until silence following upon the passionate burst of melody, he draws his breath quickly and goes on to Hythe, and into the dining-room there, where he finds Lord Sartoris still over his wine.
He is sitting at the head of the long table, looking strangely solitary, and very much aged, considering the short time that has elapsed since last he left Pullingham.
"So you are home again, Arthur," says Dorian, coldly, but with apparent composure. They have not been face to face since that last meeting, when bitter words, and still more bitter looks, had passed between them.
Now, letting the quickly spoken sentence take the place of a more active greeting, they nod coolly to each other, and carefully refuse to let their hands touch.
"Yes," says Sartoris, evenly; "I returned two days ago. Business recalled me; otherwise I was sufficiently comfortable where I was to make me wish to remain there."
"And Constance, is she quite well?"