Malvina of Brittany | Page 9

and the
commonplace. So large a portion of the years will be for him a business
of mean hopes and fears, of sordid struggle, of low cares and vulgar fret.
But also one has the conviction that there will always remain with him,
to make life wonderful, the memory of that night when, godlike, he
rode upon the winds of heaven crowned with the glory of the world's
desire. Now and again he turned his head to look at her, and still, as
ever, her eyes answered him with that strange deep content that seemed
to wrap them both around as with a garment of immortality. One
gathers dimly something of what he felt from the look that would
unconsciously come into his eyes when speaking of that enchanted
journey, from the sudden dumbness with which the commonplace
words would die away upon his lips. Well for him that his lesser self
kept firm hold upon the wheel or maybe a few broken spars, tossing
upon the waves, would have been all that was left to tell of a promising
young aviator who, on a summer night of June, had thought he could
reach the stars.
Half-way across the dawn came flaming up over the Needles, and later
there stole from east to west a long, low line of mist-enshrouded land.
One by one headland and cliff, flashing with gold, rose out of the sea,
and the white-winged gulls flew out to meet them. Almost he expected
them to turn into spirits, circling round Malvina with cries of welcome.
Nearer and nearer they drew, while gradually the mist rose upward as
the moonlight grew fainter. And all at once the sweep of the Chesil
Bank stood out before them, with Weymouth sheltering behind it.
It may have been the bathing-machines, or the gasometer beyond the

railway station, or the flag above the Royal Hotel. The curtains of the
night fell suddenly away from him. The workaday world came
knocking at the door.
He looked at his watch. It was a little after four. He had wired them at
the camp to expect him in the morning. They would be looking out for
him. By continuing his course he and Malvina could be there about
breakfast-time. He could introduce her to the colonel: "Allow me,
Colonel Goodyer, the fairy Malvina." It was either that or dropping
Malvina somewhere between Weymouth and Farnborough. He decided,
without much consideration, that this latter course would be preferable.
But where? What was he to do with her? There was Aunt Emily. Hadn't
she said something about wanting a French governess for Georgina?
True, Malvina's French was a trifle old-fashioned in form, but her
accent was charming. And as for salary--- There presented itself the
thought of Uncle Felix and the three elder boys. Instinctively he felt
that Malvina would not be Aunt Emily's idea. His father, had the dear
old gentleman been alive, would have been a safe refuge. They had
always understood one another, he and his father. But his mother! He
was not at all sure. He visualised the scene: the drawing-room at
Chester Terrace. His mother's soft, rustling entrance. Her affectionate
but well-bred greeting. And then the disconcerting silence with which
she would await his explanation of Malvina. The fact that she was a
fairy he would probably omit to mention. Faced by his mother's
gold-rimmed pince-nez, he did not see himself insisting upon that detail:
"A young lady I happened to find asleep on a moor in Brittany. And
seeing it was a fine night, and there being just room in the machine.
And she--I mean I--well, here we are." There would follow such a
painful silence, and then the raising of the delicately arched eyebrows:
"You mean, my dear lad, that you have allowed this"--there would be a
slight hesitation here--"this young person to leave her home, her people,
her friends and relations in Brittany, in order to attach herself to you.
May I ask in what capacity?"
For that was precisely how it would look, and not only to his mother.
Suppose by a miracle it really represented the facts. Suppose that, in
spite of the overwhelming evidence in her favour--of the night and the
moon and the stars, and the feeling that had come to him from the
moment he had kissed her--suppose that, in spite of all this, it turned

out that she wasn't a fairy. Suppose that suggestion of vulgar Common
Sense, that she was just a little minx that had run away from home, had
really hit the mark. Suppose inquiries were already on foot. A hundred
horse-power aeroplane does not go about unnoticed. Wasn't there a law
about this sort of thing--something about "decoying" and "young girls"?
He hadn't "decoyed" her. If anything, it was the