The evening is falling silently, yet swiftly, throwing "her dusky veil o'er nature's face." A certain chill comes from the hills and damps the twilight air.
"It is getting late," says Branscombe, gently. "Will you come home with me?"
"Yes, I will go home," she says, with a little troubled submissive sigh, and, turning, goes with him down the narrow pathway that leads to the avenue.
Above them the branches struggle and wage a goblin war with each other, helped by the night-wind, which even now is rising with sullen purpose in its moan.
Dorian strides on silently, sad at heart, and very hopeless. He is making a vigorous effort to crush down all regretful memories, and is forcing himself to try and think with gladness of the time, now fast approaching, when he shall be once more parted from her who walks beside him with bent head and quivering lips. His presence is a grief to her. All these past weeks have proved this to him: her lips have been devoid of smiles; her eyes have lost their light, her voice its old gay ring. When he is gone, she may, perhaps, recover some of the gayety that once was hers. And, once gone, why should he ever return? And——
And then—then! A little bare cold hand creeps into the one of his that is hanging loosely by his side, and, nestling in it, presses it with nervous warmth.
Dorian's heart beats madly. He hardly dares believe it true that she should, of her own accord, have given her hand to him; yet he holds it so closely in his own that his clasp almost hurts her. They do not speak; they do not turn even to look at each other, but go on their way, silent, uncertain, but no longer apart. By that one tender touch they have been united.
"You are going abroad again?" she says, in a tone so low that he can scarcely hear her.
"I was going," he says, and then their fingers meet again and press each other gently.
Coming to the stile that leads into the next path, he lays down his gun, and, mounting the steps, holds out his hand to help her to gain the top.