She got up hurriedly. None of the others seemed to think anything about it. Bert left the door open and she went after him. She was surprised at the whiteness of the side of the barn, and then realized that it was the moon shining full on it from over the house. The cracks between the stones showed as clean black lines more clearly picked out than in sunlight. Going down the path out of the tilted shadow from the roof was like walking through something palpable, say a dark canvas awning. Going on into the field they had the moon very nearly in front, and Flo gazed up and thought how it looked like a bubble filled with white light. Sometimes it was so hard to think of the moon as anything but a flat disc pasted, as it were, on a flat black ceiling; but now, surrounded by miles of faintly luminous air, it was so obviously round and buoyant that she wouldn’t have been surprised to have seen it float along just as a bubble would to the slightest breath.
“Grand night,” said Bert with a gentle sort of purring appreciation which she had never heard from him before.
He had a stick only and no gun, and walked slowly and did not seem to wish her to say anything. The whole valley showed familiarly, yet completely different; all the hills more remote and smaller, dwarfed under the tremendous height where the stars were. Even the moors and cliffs of Moss Edge were smoother, as if they were no longer peat and gritstone, but had been changed into some kind of blue-grey aluminium alloy. Bert took the shortest route towards the willows, reaching them exactly where a narrow path went through. He whispered her to tread carefully. He stopped just in cover, pushing against the branches to make room for her at his side. Some of the lissom twigs touched her hands and cheeks with coolness and gentleness. She could smell the water fresh and slightly weedy. In the water was the moon, now as calm and round as in the sky, the next moment elongating in a ripple, breaking in two, then recovering its perfect shape without effort. As the ripple moved towards them it brought on its crest a stolen gift of moonlight, but lost it just as it touched the beach. Other ripples followed, making sometimes a continuous convoy of moon bits, but they ail went out at the edge of the land. Bert pointed, and she saw to the right about twenty yards out a flotilla of dark dots led by what was unmistakably a duck. She looked closer along the beach, and as far as she could see there were ducks dabbling or preening, or floating headless and motionless.
“Worth seein’, eh?” said Bert, so low that she could scarcely tell.
He turned, pushing past, and led back into the field. They were in shadow again, the broken shadow of the willow rods, which made a queer mottling across their eyes as they walked on. Roughly at fifty-yard intervals there were other narrow paths. Bert knew all, though Flo would have passed most of them, because they started at an angle and curved and were not obvious like the first straight path. Bert led down each one, and every time that they stopped, just in hiding, Flo saw more ducks. At least she thought that they were all ducks till Bert whispered, “Water-hen and coot as well.” And suddenly he jerked up his stick silently, and she saw crossing the moon three flying ducks. They circled and dropped with a simultaneous ploughing splash, surprisingly loud though they were a score of yards out. One of the ducks gave a challenging
“Careful; don’t scare ’em,” warned Bert, leading the way back.
They reached the point of the field and turned along the inside of willows hedging what Flo guessed must be a long arm of the lake reaching back almost to the road. Here they were in full moonlight once more. It was so bright that Flo imagined that she could feel it warm like sunshine. Bert sauntered slower than before, but did not lead through the bushes. Flo was scared by a sudden whickering, but it was only a peewit which flew close above them with a pulsing, rushing sound and skirled noisily. Bert cursed and moved a little quicker. As the bird turned and tossed there was a glinting reflection off its neck or back. Just before they reached the lane where the bridge was Bert burrowed leftward and the bird flew higher, still crying, but less agitatedly, until it forgot them. The willows made a caging overhead. The ground sloped quickly and was soft. Bert paused to warn her, then went ahead with five long strides, balancing with his stick. Flo made out dimly the black back of a partly drowned branch. It was roughly knuckled, and the knuckles were the stepping places. She felt with her foot. The branch seemed greasy and a nervousness spread up her legs.
“Come on,” ordered Bert sharply, “there’s no depth.”