Athalie

Over the garden a waning moon silvered the water in the pool and

picked out from banked masses of bloom a tall lily here and there.

All the blossom-spangled vines were misty with the hovering wings of

night-moths. Through alternate bands of moonlight and dusk the jet

from the pool split into a thin shower of palely flashing jewels,

sometimes raining back on the water, sometimes drifting with the wind

across the grass. And through the dim enchantment moved Athalie,

leaning on Clive's arm, like some slim sorceress in a secret maze,

silent, absent-eyed, brooding magic.

Already into her garden had come the little fantastic creatures of the

night as though drawn thither by a spell to do her bidding. Like a fat

sprite a speckled toad hopped and hobbled and scrambled from their

path; a tiny snake, green as the grass blades that it stirred, slipped

from a pool of moonlight into a lake of shadow. Somewhere a small owl,

tremulously melodious, called and called: and from the salt meadows,

distantly, the elfin whistle of plover answered.

Like some lost wanderer from the moon itself a great moth with

nile-green wings fell flopping on the grass at the girl's feet. And

Clive, wondering, lifted it gingerly for her inspection.

Together they examined the twin moons shining on its translucent

wings, the furry, snow-white body and the six downy feet of palest

rose. Then, at Athalie's request, Clive tossed the angelic creature

into the air; and there came a sudden blur of black wings in the

moonlight, and a bat took it.

But neither he nor she had seen in allegory the darting thing with

devil's wings that dashed the little spirit of the moon into eternal

night. And out of the black void above, one by one, flakes from the

frail wings came floating.

To and fro they moved. She with both hands clasped and resting on his

arm, peering through darkness down at the flowers, as one perfume,

mounting, overpowered another--clove-pink, rocket, lily, and petunia,

each in its turn dominant, triumphant.

Puffs of fragrance from the distant sea stirred the garden's tranquil

air from time to time: somewhere honeyed bunches hung high from locust

trees; and the salt meadow's aromatic tang lent savour to the night.

"I must go back to town," he said irresolutely.

He heard her sigh, felt her soft clasp tighten slightly over his arm.

But she turned back in silence with him toward the house, passed in

the open door before him, her fair head lowered, and stood so, leaning

against the newel-post.

"Good night," he said in a low voice, still irresolute.