Malvina of Brittany | Page 7

to the shadows, he saw her
quite plainly, the wonder of the parted lips, the gleam of the white
limbs beneath their flimsy covering.
Of course, what he ought to have done was to have risen gently and
moved away. Then he could have coughed. And if that did not wake
her he might have touched her lightly, say, on the shoulder, and have
called to her, first softly, then a little louder, "Mademoiselle," or "Mon
enfant." Even better, he might have stolen away on tiptoe and left her
there sleeping.
This idea does not seem to have occurred to him. One makes the excuse
for him that he was but three-and-twenty, that, framed in the purple
moonlight, she seemed to him the most beautiful creature his eyes had
ever seen. And then there was the brooding mystery of it all, that
atmosphere of far-off primeval times from which the roots of life still
draw their sap. One takes it he forgot that he was Flight Commander
Raffleton, officer and gentleman; forgot the proper etiquette applying
to the case of ladies found sleeping upon lonely moors without a
chaperon. Greater still, the possibility that he never thought of anything
at all, but, just impelled by a power beyond himself, bent down and
kissed her.
Not a platonic kiss upon the brow, not a brotherly kiss upon the cheek,
but a kiss full upon the parted lips, a kiss of worship and amazement,
such as that with which Adam in all probability awakened Eve.
Her eyes opened, and, just a little sleepily, she looked at him. There
could have been no doubt in her mind as to what had happened. His
lips were still pressing hers. But she did not seem in the least surprised,
and most certainly not angry. Raising herself to a sitting posture, she
smiled and held out her hand that he might help her up. And, alone in

that vast temple, star-roofed and moon- illumined, beside that grim
grey altar of forgotten rites, hand in hand they stood and looked at one
another.
"I beg your pardon," said Commander Raffleton. "I'm afraid I have
disturbed you."
He remembered afterwards that in his confusion he had spoken to her
in English. But she answered him in French, a quaint, old-fashioned
French such as one rarely finds but in the pages of old missals. He
would have had some difficulty in translating it literally, but the
meaning of it was, adapted to our modern idiom:
"Don't mention it. I'm so glad you've come."
He gathered she had been expecting him. He was not quite sure
whether he ought not to apologise for being apparently a little late.
True, he had no recollection of any such appointment. But then at that
particular moment Commander Raffleton may be said to have had no
consciousness of anything beyond just himself and the wondrous other
beside him. Somewhere outside was moonlight and a world; but all that
seemed unimportant. It was she who broke the silence.
"How did you get here?" she asked.
He did not mean to be enigmatical. He was chiefly concerned with still
gazing at her.
"I flew here," he answered. Her eyes opened wider at that, but with
interest, not doubt.
"Where are your wings?" she asked. She was leaning sideways, trying
to get a view of his back.
He laughed. It made her seem more human, that curiosity about his
back.
"Over there," he answered. She looked, and for the first time saw the
great shimmering sails gleaming like silver under the moonlight.
She moved towards it, and he followed, noticing without surprise that
the heather seemed to make no sign of yielding to the pressure of her
white feet.
She halted a little away from it, and he came and stood beside her.
Even to Commander Raffleton himself it looked as if the great wings
were quivering, like the outstretched pinions of a bird preening itself
before flight.
"Is it alive?" she asked.

"Not till I whisper to it," he answered. He was losing a little of his fear
of her. She turned to him.
"Shall we go?" she asked.
He stared at her. She was quite serious, that was evident. She was to
put her hand in his and go away with him. It was all settled. That is
why he had come. To her it did not matter where. That was his affair.
But where he went she was to go. That was quite clearly the
programme in her mind.
To his credit, let it be recorded, he did make an effort. Against all the
forces of nature, against his twenty-three years and the red blood
pulsing in his veins, against the fumes of the midsummer moonlight
encompassing him and the voices of the stars, against the