IX

Nearly everything came down untouched. Eating and drinking had been in

progress almost all day on the course, and Esther had finished washing up

before nine, and had laid the cloth in the servants' hall for supper. But

if little was eaten upstairs, plenty was eaten downstairs; the mutton was

finished in a trice, and Mrs. Latch had to fetch from the larder what

remained of a beefsteak pudding. Even then they were not satisfied, and

fine inroads were made into a new piece of cheese. Beer, according to

orders, was served without limit, and four bottles of port were sent down

so that the health of the horse might be adequately drunk.

While assuaging their hunger the men had exchanged many allusive remarks

regarding the Demon's bad ending, how nearly he had thrown the race away;

and the meal being now over, and there being nothing to do but to sit and

talk, Mr. Leopold, encouraged by William, entered on an elaborate and

technical account of the race. The women listened, playing with a rind of

cheese, glancing at the cheese itself, wondering if they could manage

another slice, and the men sipping their port wine, puffing at their

pipes, William listening most avidly of all, enjoying each sporting term,

and ingeniously reminding Mr. Leopold of some detail whenever he seemed

disposed to shorten his narrative. The criticism of the Demon's

horsemanship took a long while, for by a variety of suggestive remarks

William led Mr. Leopold into reminiscences of the skill of certain famous

jockeys in the first half of the century. These digressions wearied Sarah

and Grover, and their thoughts wandered to the dresses that had been worn

that day, and the lady's-maid remembered she would hear all that

interested her that night in the young ladies' rooms. At last, losing all

patience, Sarah declared that she didn't care what Chifney had said when

he just managed to squeeze his horse's head in front in the last dozen

yards, she wanted to know what the Demon had done to so nearly lose the

race--had he mistaken the winning-post and pulled up? William looked at

her contemptuously, and would have answered rudely, but at that moment Mr.

Leopold began to tell the last instructions that the Gaffer had given the

Demon. The orders were that the Demon should go right up to the leaders

before they reached the half-mile, and remain there. Of course, if he

found that he was a stone or more in hand, as the Gaffer expected, he

might come away pretty well as he liked, for the greatest danger was that

the horse might get shut out or might show temper and turn it up.

"Well," said Mr. Leopold, "there were two false starts, and Silver Braid

must have galloped a couple of 'undred yards afore the Demon could stop

him. There wasn't twopence-halfpenny worth of strength in him--pulling off

those three or four pounds pretty well finished him. He'll never be able

to ride that weight again.... He said afore starting that he felt weak;

you took him along too smartly from Portslade the last time you went

there."

"When he went by himself he'd stop playing marbles with the boys round the

Southwick public-house."

"If there had been another false start I think it would have been all up

with us. The Gaffer was quite pale, and he stood there not taking his

glasses from his eyes. There were over thirty of them, so you can imagine

how hard it was to get them into line. However, at the third attempt they

were got straight and away they came, a black line stretching right across

the course. Presently the black cap and jacket came to the front, and not

very long after a murmur went round, 'Silver Braid wins.' Never saw

anything like it in all my life. He was three lengths a'ead, and the

others were pulling off. 'Damn the boy; he'll win by twenty lengths,' said

the Gaffer, without removing his glasses. But when within a few yards of

the stand----"

At that moment the bell rang. Mr. Leopold said, "There, they are wanting

their tea; I must go and get it."

"Drat their tea," said Margaret; "they can wait. Finish up; tell us how he

won."

Mr. Leopold looked round, and seeing every eye fixed on him he considered

how much remained of the story, and with quickened speech continued,

"Well, approaching the stand, I noticed that Silver Braid was not going

quite so fast, and at the very instant the Demon looked over his shoulder,

and seeing he was losing ground he took up the whip. But the moment he

struck him the horse swerved right across the course, right under the

stand, running like a rat from underneath the whip. The Demon caught him

one across the nose with his left hand, but seeing what was 'appening, the

Tinman, who was on Bullfinch, sat down and began riding. I felt as if

there was a lump of ice down my back," and Mr. Leopold lowered his voice,

and his face became grave as he recalled that perilous moment. "I thought

it was all over," he said, "and the Gaffer thought the same; I never saw a

man go so deadly pale. It was all the work of a moment, but that moment

was more than a year--at least, so it seemed to me. Well, about half-way

up the rails the Tinman got level with the Demon. It was ten to one that

Silver Braid would turn it up, or that the boy wouldn't 'ave the strength

to ride out so close a finish as it was bound to be. I thought then of the

way you used to take him along from Portslade, and I'd have given

something to've put a pound or two of flesh into his thighs and arms. The

Tinman was riding splendid, getting every ounce and something more out of

Bullfinch. The Demon, too weak to do much, was sitting nearly quite still.

It looked as if it was all up with us, but somehow Silver Braid took to

galloping of his own accord, and 'aving such a mighty lot in 'and he won

on the post by a 'ead--a short 'ead.... I never felt that queer in my life

and the Gaffer was no better; but I said to him, just afore the numbers

went up, 'It is all right, sir, he's just done it,' and when the right

number went up I thought everything was on the dance, going for swim like.

By golly, it was a near thing!" At the end of a long silence Mr. Leopold

said, shaking himself out of his thoughts, "Now I must go and get their

tea."

Esther sat at the end of the table; her cheek leaned on her hand. By

turning her eyes she could see William. Sarah noticed one of these

stealthy backward glances and a look of anger crossed her face, and

calling to William she asked him when the sweepstakes money would be

divided. The question startled William from a reverie of small bets, and

he answered that there was no reason why the sweepstakes money should not

be divided at once.

"There was twelve. That's right, isn't it?--Sarah, Margaret, Esther, Miss

Grover, Mr. Leopold, myself, the four boys, and Swindles and Wall....

Well, it was agreed that seven should go to the first, three to the

second, and two to the third. No one got the third 'orse, so I suppose the

two shillings that would have gone to him 'ad better be given to the

first."

"Given to the first! Why, that's Esther! Why should she get it?... What do

you mean? No third! Wasn't Soap-bubble third?"

"Yes, Soap-bubble was third right enough, but he wasn't in the sweep."

"And why wasn't he?"

"Because he wasn't among the eleven first favourites. We took them as they

were quoted in the betting list published in the _Sportsman_."

"How was it, then, that you put in Silver Braid?"

"Yer needn't get so angry, Sarah, no one's cheating; it is all above

board. If you don't believe us, you'd better accuse us straight out."

"What I want to know is, why Silver Braid was included?--he wasn't among

the eleven first favourites."

"Oh, don't be so stupid, Sarah; you know that we agreed to make an

exception in favour of our own 'orse--a nice sweep it would 'ave been if

we 'adn't included Silver Braid."

"And suppose," she exclaimed, tightening her brows, "that Soap-bubble had

won, what would have become of our money?"

"It would have been returned--everyone would have got his shilling back."

"And now I am to get three shillings, and that little Methodist or

Plymouth Brethren there, whatever you like to call her, is to get nine!"

said Sarah, with a light of inspiration flashing through her beer-clouded

mind. "Why should the two shillings that would have gone to Soap-bubble,

if anyone 'ad drawn 'im, go to the first 'orse rather than to the second?"

William hesitated, unable for the moment to give a good reason why the

extra two shillings should be given to Silver Braid; and Sarah, perceiving

her advantage, deliberately accused him of wishing to favour Esther.

"Don't we know that you went out to walk with her, and that you remained

out till nearly eleven at night. That's why you want all the money to go

to her. You don't take us for a lot of fools, do you? Never in any place I

ever was in before would such a thing be allowed--the footman going out

with the kitchen-maid, and one of the Dissenting lot."

"I am not going to have my religion insulted! How dare you?" And Esther

started up from her place; but William was too quick for her. He grasped

her arm.

"Never mind what Sarah says."

"Never mind what I says! ...A thing like that, who never was in a

situation before; no doubt taken out of some 'ouse. Rescue work, I think

they call it----"

"She shan't insult me--no, she shan't!" said Esther, tremulous with

passion.

"A nice sort of person to insult!" said Sarah, her arms akimbo.

"Now look you here, Sarah Tucker," said Mrs. Latch, starting from her

seat, "I'm not going to see that girl aggravated, so that she may do what

she shouldn't do, and give you an opportunity of going to the missis with

tales about her. Come away, Esther, come with me. Let them go on betting

if they will; I never saw no good come of it."

"That's all very fine, mother; but it must be settled, and we have to

divide the money."

"I don't want your money," said Esther, sullenly; "I wouldn't take it."

"What blooming nonsense! You must take your money. Ah, here's Mr. Leopold!

he'll decide it."

Mr. Leopold said at once that the money that under other circumstances

would have gone to the third horse must be divided between the first and

second; but Sarah refused to accept this decision. Finally, it was

proposed that the matter should be referred to the editor of the

_Sportsman_; and as Sarah still remained deaf to argument, William offered

her choice between the _Sportsman_ and the _Sporting Life_.

"Look here," said William, getting between the women; "this evening isn't

one for fighting; we have all won our little bit, and ought to be

thankful. The only difference between you is two shillings, that were to

have gone to the third horse if anyone had drawn him. Mr. Leopold says it

ought to be divided; you, Sarah, won't accept his decision. We have

offered to write to the _Sportsman_, and Esther has offered to give up her

claim. Now, in the name of God, tell us what do you want?"

She raised some wholly irrelevant issue, and after a protracted argument

with William, largely composed of insulting remarks, she declared that she

wasn't going to take the two shillings, nor yet one of them; let them give

her the three she had won--that was all she wanted. William looked at her,

shrugged his shoulders, and, after declaring that it was his conviction

that women wasn't intended to have nothing to do with horse-racing, he

took up his pipe and tobacco-pouch.

"Good-night, ladies, I have had enough of you for to-night; I am going to

finish my smoke in the pantry. Don't scratch all your 'air out; leave

enough for me to put into a locket."

When the pantry door was shut, and the men had smoked some moments in

silence, William said--

"Do you think he has any chance of winning the Chesterfield Cup?"

"He'll win in a canter if he'll only run straight. If I was the Gaffer I

think I'd put up a bigger boy. He'll 'ave to carry a seven-pound penalty,

and Johnnie Scott could ride that weight."

The likelihood that a horse will bolt with one jockey and run straight

with another was argued passionately, and illustrated with interesting

reminiscences drawn from that remote past when Mr. Leopold was the

Gaffer's private servant--before either of them had married--when life was

composed entirely of horse-racing and prize-fighting. But cutting short

his tale of how he had met one day the Birmingham Chicken in a booth, and,

not knowing who he was, had offered to fight him, Mr. Leopold confessed he

did not know how to act--he had a bet of fifty pounds to ten shillings for

the double event; should he stand it out or lay some of it off? William

thrilled with admiration. What a 'ead, and who'd think it? that little

'ead, hardly bigger than a cocoanut! What a brain there was inside! Fifty

pounds to ten shillings; should he stand it out or hedge some of it? Who

could tell better than Mr. Leopold? It would, of course, be a pity to

break into the fifty. What did ten shillings matter? Mr. Leopold was a big

enough man to stand the racket of it even if it didn't come back. William

felt very proud of being consulted, for Mr. Leopold had never before been

known to let anyone know what he had on a race.

Next day they walked into Shoreham together. The bar of the "Red Lion" was

full of people. Above the thronging crowd the voice of the barman and the

customers were heard calling, "Two glasses of Burton, glass of bitter,

three of whiskey cold." There were railway porters, sailors, boatmen,

shop-boys, and market gardeners. They had all won something, and had come

for their winnings.

Old Watkins, an elderly man with white whiskers and a curving stomach, had

just run in to wet his whistle. He walked back to his office with Mr.

Leopold and William, a little corner shelved out of some out-houses, into

which you could walk from the street.

"Talk of favourites!" he said; "I'd sooner pay over the three first

favourites than this one--thirty, twenty to one starting price, and the

whole town onto him; it's enough to break any man.... Now, my men, what is

it?" he said, turning to the railway porters.

"Just the trifle me and my mates 'av won over that 'ere 'orse."

"What was it?"

"A shilling at five and twenty to one."

"Look it out, Joey. Is it all right?"

"Yes, sir; yes, sir," said the clerk.

And old Watkins slid his hand into his breeches pocket, and it came forth

filled with gold and silver.

"Come, come, mates, we are bound to 'ave a bet on him for the

Chesterfield--we can afford it now; what say yer, a shilling each?"

"Done for a shilling each," said the under-porter; "finest 'orse in

training.... What price, Musser Watkins?"

"Ten to one."

"Right, 'ere's my bob."

The other porters gave their shillings; Watkins slid them back into his

pocket, and called to Joey to book the bet.

"And, now, what is yours, Mr. Latch?"

William stated the various items. He had had a bet of ten shillings to one

on one race and had lost; he had had half-a-crown on another and had lost;

in a word, three-and-sixpence had to be subtracted from his winnings on

Silver Braid. These amounted to more than five pounds. William's face

flushed with pleasure, and the world seemed to be his when he slipped four

sovereigns and a handful of silver into his waistcoat pocket. Should he

put a sovereign of his winnings on Silver Braid for the Chesterfield?

Half-a-sovereign was enough! ...The danger of risking a sovereign--a whole

sovereign--frightened him.

"Now, Mr. Latch," said old Watkins, "if you want to back anything, make up

your mind; there are a good many besides yourself who have business with

me."

William hesitated, and then said he'd take ten half-sovereigns to one

against Silver Braid.

"Ten half-sovereigns to one?" said old Watkins.

William murmured "Yes," and Joey booked the bet.

Mr. Leopold's business demanded more consideration. The fat betting man

and the scarecrow little butler walked aside and talked, both apparently

indifferent to the impatience of a number of small customers; sometimes

Joey called in his shrill cracked voice if he might lay ten half-crowns to

one, or five shillings to one, as the case might be. Watkins would then

raise his eyes from Mr. Leopold's face and nod or shake his head, or

perhaps would sign with his fingers what odds he was prepared to lay. With

no one else would Watkins talk so lengthily, showing so much deference.

Mr. Leopold had the knack of investing all he did with an air of mystery,

and the deepest interest was evinced in this conversation. At last, as if

dismissing matters of first importance, the two men approached William,

and he heard Watkins pressing Mr. Leopold to lay off some of that fifty

pounds.

"I'll take twelve to one--twenty-four pounds to two. Shall I book it?"

Mr. Leopold shook his head, and, smiling enigmatically, said he must be

getting back. William was much impressed, and congratulated himself on his

courage in taking the ten half-sovereigns to one. Mr. Leopold knew a thing

or two; he had been talking to the Gaffer that morning, and if it hadn't

been all right he would have laid off some of the money.

Next day one of the Gaffer's two-year-olds won a race, and the day after

Silver Braid won the Chesterfield Cup.

The second victory of Silver Braid nearly ruined old Watkins. He declared

that he had never been so hard hit; but as he did not ask for time and

continued to draw notes and gold and silver in handfuls from his capacious

pockets, his lamentations only served to stimulate the happiness of the

fortunate backers, and, listening to the sweet note of self ringing in

their hearts, they returned to the public-house to drink the health of the

horse.

So the flood of gold continued to roll into the little town, decrepit and

colourless by its high shingle beach and long reaches of muddy river. The

dear gold jingled merrily in the pockets, quickening the steps, lightening

the heart, curling lips with smiles, opening lips with laughter. The dear

gold came falling softly, sweetly as rain, soothing the hard lives of

working folk. Lives pressed with toil lifted up and began to dream again.

The dear gold was like an opiate; it wiped away memories of hardship and

sorrow, it showed life in a lighter and merrier guise, and the folk

laughed at their fears for the morrow and wondered how they could have

thought life so hard and relentless. The dear gold was pleasing as a bird

on the branch, as a flower on the stem; the tune it sang was sweet, the

colour it flaunted was bright.

The trade of former days had never brought the excitement and the fortune

that this horse's hoofs had done. The dust they had thrown up had fallen a

happy, golden shower upon Shoreham. In every corner and crevice of life

the glitter appeared. That fine red dress on the builder's wife, and the

feathers that the girls flaunt at their sweethearts, the loud trousers on

the young man's legs, the cigar in his mouth--all is Goodwood gold. It

glitters in that girl's ears and on this girl's finger.

It was said that the town of Shoreham had won two thousand pounds on the

race; it was said that Mr. Leopold had won two hundred; it was said that

William Latch had won fifty; it was said that Wall, the coachman, had won

five-and-twenty; it was said that the Gaffer had won forty thousand

pounds. For ten miles around nothing was talked of but the wealth of the

Barfields, and, drawn like moths to a candle, the county came to call;

even the most distant and reserved left cards, others walked up and down

the lawn with the Gaffer, listening to his slightest word. A golden

prosperity shone upon the yellow Italian house. Carriages passed under its

elm-trees at every hour and swept round the evergreen oaks. Rumour said

that large alterations were going to be made, so that larger and grander

entertainments might be given; an Italian garden was spoken of,

balustrades and terraces, stables were in course of construction, many

more race-horses were bought; they arrived daily, and the slender

creatures, their dark eyes glancing out of the sight holes in their cloth

hoods, walked up from the station followed by an admiring and commenting

crowd. Drink and expensive living, dancing and singing upstairs and

downstairs, and the jollifications culminated in a servants' ball given at

the Shoreham Gardens. All the Woodview servants, excepting Mrs. Latch,

were there; likewise all the servants from Mr. Northcote's, and those from

Sir George Preston's--two leading county families. A great number of

servants had come from West Brighton, and Lancing, and Worthing

--altogether between two and three hundred. "Evening dress is

indispensable" was printed on the cards. The butlers, footmen, cooks,

ladies' maids, housemaids, and housekeepers hoped by this notification to

keep the ball select. But the restriction seemed to condemn Esther to play

again the part of Cinderella.

X

A group of men turned from the circular buffet when Esther entered. Miss

Mary had given her a white muslin dress, a square-cut bodice with sleeves

reaching to the elbows, and a blue sash tied round the waist. The remarks

as she passed were, "A nice, pretty girl." William was waiting, and she

went away with him on the hop of a vigorous polka.

Many of the dancers had gone to get cool in the gardens, but a few couples

had begun to whirl, the women borne along by force, the men poising their

legs into curious geometrical positions.

Mr. Leopold was very busy dragging men away from the circular buffet--they

must dance whether they knew how or not.

"The Gaffer has told me partic'lar to see that the 'gals' all had

partners, and just look down that 'ere room; 'alf of that lot 'aven't been

on their legs yet. 'Ere's a partner for you," and the butler pulled a

young gamekeeper towards a young girl who had just arrived. She entered

slowly, her hands clasped across her bosom, her eyes fixed on the ground,

and the strangeness of the spectacle caused Mr. Leopold to pause. It was

whispered that she had never worn a low dress before, and Grover came to

the rescue of her modesty with a pocket-handkerchief.

But it had been found impossible to restrict the ball to those who

possessed or could obtain an evening suit, and plenty of check trousers

and red neckties were hopping about. Among the villagers many a touch

suggested costume. A young girl had borrowed her grandmother's wedding

dress, and a young man wore a canary-coloured waistcoat and a blue

coastguardsman's coat of old time. These touches of fancy and personal

taste divided the villagers from the household servants. The butlers

seemed on the watch for side dishes, and the valets suggested hair brushes

and hot water. Cooks trailed black silk dresses adorned with wide collars,

and fastened with gold brooches containing portraits of their late

husbands; and the fine shirt fronts set off with rich pearls, the

lavender-gloved hands, the delicate faces, expressive of ease and leisure,

made Ginger's two friends--young Mr. Preston and young Mr. Northcote

--noticeable among this menial, work-a-day crowd. Ginger loved the

upper circles, and now he romped the polka in the most approved

London fashion, his elbows advanced like a yacht's bowsprit, and, his

coat-tails flying, he dashed through a group of tradespeople who were

bobbing up and down, hardly advancing at all.

Esther was now being spoken of as the belle of the ball, she had danced

with young Mr. Preston, and seeing her sitting alone Grover called her and

asked her why she was not dancing. Esther answered sullenly that she was

tired.

"Come, the next polka, just to show there is no ill-feeling." Half a dozen

times William repeated his demand. At last she said--

"You've spoilt all my pleasure in the dancing."

"I'm sorry if I've done that, Esther. I was jealous, that's all."

"Jealous! What was you jealous for? What do it matter what people think,

so long as I know I haven't done no wrong?"

And in silence they walked into the garden. The night was warm, even

oppressive, and the moon hung like a balloon above the trees, and often

the straying revellers stopped to consider the markings now so plain upon

its disc. There were arbours, artificial ruins, darkling pathways, and the

breathless garden was noisy in the illusive light. William showed Esther

the theatre and explained its purpose. She listened, though she did not

understand, nor could she believe that she was not dreaming when they

suddenly stood on the borders of a beautiful lake full of the shadows of

tall trees, and crossed by a wooden bridge at the narrowest end.

"How still the water is; and the stars, they are lovely!"

"You should see the gardens about three o'clock on Saturday afternoons,

when the excursion comes in from Brighton."

They walked on a little further, and Esther said, "What's these places?

Ain't they dark?"

"These are arbours, where we 'as shrimps and tea. I'll take you next

Saturday, if you'll come."

A noisy band of young men, followed by three or four girls, ran across the

bridge. Suddenly they stopped to argue on which side the boat was to be

found. Some chose the left, some the right; those who went to the right

sent up a yell of triumph, and paddled into the middle of the water. They

first addressed remarks to their companions, and then they admired the

moon and stars. A song was demanded, and at the end of the second verse

William threw his arm round Esther.

"Oh, Esther, I do love you."

She looked at him, her grey eyes fixed in a long interrogation.

"I wonder if that is true. What is there to love in me?"

He squeezed her tightly, and continued his protestations. "I do, I do, I

do love you, Esther."

She did not answer, and they walked slowly on. A holly bush threw a black

shadow on the gravel path and a moment after the ornamental tin roof of

the dancing room appeared between the trees.

Even in their short absence a change had come upon the ball. About the

circular buffet numbers of men called for drink, and talked loudly of

horse-racing. Many were away at supper, and those that remained were

amusing themselves in a desultory fashion. A tall, lean woman, dressed

like Sarah in white muslin, wearing amber beads round her neck, was

dancing the lancers with the Demon, and everyone shook with laughter when

she whirled the little fellow round or took him in her arms and carried

him across. William wanted to dance, but Esther was hungry, and led him

away to an adjoining building where cold beef, chicken, and beer might be

had by the strong and adventurous. As they struggled through the crowd

Esther spied three young gentlemen at the other end of the room.

"Now tell me, if they ask me, the young gents yonder, to dance, am I to

look them straight in the face and say no?"

William considered a moment, and then he said, "I think you had better

dance with them if they asks you; if you refuse, Sarah will say it was I

who put you up to it."

"Let's have another bottle," cried Ginger. "Come, what do you say, Mr.

Thomas?"

Mr. Thomas coughed, smiled, and said that Mr. Arthur wished to see him in

the hands of the police. However, he promised to drink his share. Two more

bottles were sent for, and, stimulated by the wine, the weights that would

probably be assigned to certain horses in the autumn handicap were

discussed. William was very proud of being admitted into such company, and

he listened, a cigar which he did not like between his teeth, and a glass

of champagne in his hand.... Suddenly the conversation was interrupted by

the cornet sounding the first phrase of a favourite waltz, and the tipsy

and the sober hastened away.

Neither Esther nor William knew how to waltz, but they tumbled round the

room, enjoying themselves immensely. In the polka and mazurka they got on

better; and there were quadrilles and lancers in which the gentlemen

joined, and all were gay and pleasant; even Sarah's usually sour face

glowed with cordiality when they joined hands and raced round the men

standing in the middle. In the chain they lost themselves as in a

labyrinth and found their partners unexpectedly. But the dance of the

evening was Sir Roger de Coverley, and Esther's usually sober little brain

evaporated in the folly of running up the room, then turning and running

backwards, getting into her place as best she could, and then starting

again. It always appeared to be her turn, and it was so sweet to see her

dear William, and such a strange excitement to run forward to meet young

Mr. Preston, to curtsey to him, and then run away; and this over and over

again.

"There's the dawn."

Esther looked, and in the whitening doorways she saw the little jockey

staggering about helplessly drunk. The smile died out of her eyes; she

returned to her true self, to Mrs. Barfield and the Brethren. She felt

that all this dancing, drinking, and kissing in the arbours was wicked.

But Miss Mary had sent for her, and had told her that she would give her

one of her dresses, and she had not known how to refuse Miss Mary. Then,

if she had not gone, William--Sounds of loud voices were heard in the

garden, and the lean woman in the white muslin repeated some charge.

Esther ran out to see what was happening, and there she witnessed a

disgraceful scene. The lean woman in the muslin dress and the amber beads

accused young Mr. Preston of something which he denied, and she heard

William tell someone that he was mistaken, that he and his pals didn't

want no rowing at this 'ere ball, and what was more they didn't mean to

have none.

And her heart filled with love for her big William. What a fine fellow he

was! how handsome were his shoulders beside that round-shouldered little

man whom he so easily pulled aside! and having crushed out the quarrel, he

helped her on with her jacket, and, hanging on his arm, they returned home

through the little town. Margaret followed with the railway porter; Sarah

was with her faithful admirer, a man with a red beard, whom she had picked

up at the ball; Grover waddled in the rear, embarrassed with the green

silk, which she held high out of the dust of the road.

When they reached the station the sky was stained with rose, and the

barren downs--more tin-like than ever in the shadow-less light of

dawn--stretched across the sunrise from Lancing to Brighton. The little

birds sat ruffling their feathers, and, awaking to the responsibilities of

the day, flew away into the corn. The night had been close and sultry, and

even at this hour there was hardly any freshness in the air. Esther looked

at the hills, examining the landscape intently. She was thinking of the

first time she saw it. Some vague association of ideas--the likeness that

the morning landscape bore to the evening landscape, or the wish to

prolong the sweetness of these, the last moments of her happiness,

impelled her to linger and to ask William if the woods and fields were not

beautiful. The too familiar landscape awoke in William neither idea nor

sensation; Esther interested him more, and while she gazed dreamily on the

hills he admired the white curve of her neck which showed beneath the

unbuttoned jacket. She never looked prettier than she did that morning,

standing on the dusty road, her white dress crumpled, the ends of the blue

sash hanging beneath the black cloth jacket.