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.




XI


For days nothing was talked of but the ball--how this man had danced, the
bad taste of this woman's dress, and the possibility of a marriage. The
ball had brought amusement to all, to Esther it had brought happiness. Her
happiness was now visible in her face and audible in her voice, and
Sarah's ironical allusions to her inability to learn to read no longer
annoyed her, no longer stirred her temper--her love seemed to induce
forgiveness for all and love for everything.