While he was speaking there came a vivid flash of lightning which lit each of them up for the other—­and the light seemed to be the terror of a hopeless love.  Dorothea darted instantaneously from the window; Will followed her, seizing her hand with a spasmodic movement; and so they stood, with their hands clasped, like two children, looking out on the storm, while the thunder gave a tremendous crack and roll above them, and the rain began to pour down.  Then they turned their faces towards each other, with the memory of his last words in them, and they did not loose each other’s hands.

“There is no hope for me,” said Will.  “Even if you loved me as well as I love you—­even if I were everything to you—­ I shall most likely always be very poor:  on a sober calculation, one can count on nothing but a creeping lot.  It is impossible for us ever to belong to each other.  It is perhaps base of me to have asked for a word from you.  I meant to go away into silence, but I have not been able to do what I meant.”

“Don’t be sorry,” said Dorothea, in her clear tender tones.  “I would rather share all the trouble of our parting.”

Her lips trembled, and so did his.  It was never known which lips were the first to move towards the other lips; but they kissed tremblingly, and then they moved apart.

The rain was dashing against the window-panes as if an angry spirit were within it, and behind it was the great swoop of the wind; it was one of those moments in which both the busy and the idle pause with a certain awe.

Dorothea sat down on the seat nearest to her, a long low ottoman in the middle of the room, and with her hands folded over each other on her lap, looked at the drear outer world.  Will stood still an instant looking at her, then seated himself beside her, and laid his hand on hers, which turned itself upward to be clasped.  They sat in that way without looking at each other, until the rain abated and began to fall in stillness.  Each had been full of thoughts which neither of them could begin to utter.

But when the rain was quiet, Dorothea turned to look at Will.  With passionate exclamation, as if some torture screw were threatening him, he started up and said, “It is impossible!”

He went and leaned on the back of the chair again, and seemed to be battling with his own anger, while she looked towards him sadly.

“It is as fatal as a murder or any other horror that divides people,” he burst out again; “it is more intolerable—­to have our life maimed by petty accidents.”

“No—­don’t say that—­your life need not be maimed,” said Dorothea, gently.

“Yes, it must,” said Will, angrily.  “It is cruel of you to speak in that way—­as if there were any comfort.  You may see beyond the misery of it, but I don’t.  It is unkind—­it is throwing back my love for you as if it were a trifle, to speak in that way in the face of the fact.  We can never be married.”