Esther looked at William in silent admiration, and, feeling that he had secured an appreciative listener, he continued his monologue regarding the wealth and rank his family had formerly held, till a heavy dew forced them to their feet. In front of them was the moon, and out of the forlorn sky looked down the misted valleys; the crests of the hills were still touched with light, and lights flew from coast town to coast town, weaving a luminous garland.
The sheep had been folded, and seeing them lying in the greyness of this hill-side, and beyond them the massive moonlit landscape and the vague sea, Esther suddenly became aware, as she had never done before, of the exceeding beauty of the world. Looking up in William's face, she said—
"Oh, how beautiful!"
As they descended the drove-way their feet raised the chalk, and William said—
"This is bad for Silver Braid; we shall want some more rain in a day or two…. Let's come for a walk round the farm," he said suddenly. "The farm belongs to the Gaffer, but he's let the Lodge to a young fellow called Johnson. He's the chap that Peggy used to go after—there was awful rows about that, and worse when he forestalled the Gaffer about Egmont."
The conversation wandered agreeably, and they became more conscious of each other. He told her all he knew about the chap who had jilted Miss Mary, and the various burlesque actresses at the Shoreham Gardens who had captivated Ginger's susceptible heart. While listening she suddenly became aware that she had never been so happy before. Now all she had endured seemed accidental; she felt that she had entered into the permanent; and in the midst of vague but intense sensations William showed her the pigeon-house with all the blue birds dozing on the tiles, a white one here and there. They visited the workshop, the forge, and the old cottages where the bailiff and the shepherd lived; and all this inanimate nature—the most insignificant objects—seemed inspired, seemed like symbols of her emotion.
They left the farm and wandered on the high road until a stile leading to a cornfield beguiled and then delayed their steps.
The silence of the moonlight was clear and immense; and they listened to the trilling of the nightingale in the copse hard by. First they sought to discover the brown bird in the branches of the poor hedge, and then the reason of the extraordinary emotion in their hearts. It seemed that all life was beating in that moment, and they were as it were inflamed to reach out their hands to life and to grasp it together. Even William noticed that. And the moon shone on the mist that had gathered on the long marsh lands of the foreshore. Beyond the trees the land wavered out into down land, the river gleamed and intensely.
This moment was all the poetry of their lives. The striking of a match to light his pipe, which had gone out, put the music to flight, and all along the white road he continued his monologue, interrupted only by the necessity of puffing at his pipe.
"Mother says that if I had twopence worth of pride in me I wouldn't have consented to put on the livery; but what I says to mother is, 'What's the use of having pride if you haven't money?' I tells her that I am rotten with pride, but my pride is to make money. I can't see that the man what is willing to remain poor all his life has any pride at all…. But, Lord! I have argued with mother till I'm sick; she can see nothing further than the livery; that's what women are—they are that short-sighted…. A lot of good it would have done me to have carried parcels all my life, and when I could do four mile an hour no more, to be turned out to die in the ditch and be buried by the parish. 'Not good enough,' says I. 'If that's your pride, mother, you may put it in your pipe and smoke it, and as you 'aven't got a pipe, perhaps behind the oven will do as well,'—that's what I said to her. I saw well enough there was nothing for me but service, and I means to stop here until I can get on three or four good things and then retire into a nice comfortable public-house and do my own betting."