Abstract Ethics
Beginnings
“Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Hover through the fog and filthy air.”
-Macbeth
“I kiss’d thee ere I kill’d thee. No way but this-
killing myself, to die upon a kiss”
-Othello
The road through the North Yorkshire moors was enveloped in thick mist. The carriage traversed highways along the wild, purple hills and the air was damp with moisture.
Inside the carriage, conversation was scarce, owing to the fact that its two occupants were the shy Miss Violet Rose, of Harrogate, a girl as pale as to be almost invisible and with the wispy blonde hair of a child, and Mr. Vyvyan Sellars, Esq., the recently orphaned son of a wealthy banker, who had been overcome with grief. It was in great part due to the parents of Miss Rose, friends of the recently deceased Sellars, who had arranged this trip to Whitby, to help the young Vyvyan recover from his loss, and also in the hope that he would become attached to Miss Rose. She was really such a gentle, quiet girl, that she really would be the best company for the grief-stricken young man. She was far too fragile to become a debutant in London society, so her parents reasoned that this might be the only opportunity to introduce her to a suitable young man.
Outside, the wind whipped the low stone walls which intersected the landscape. Miss Rose was occupied with the scenery, although it was largely hidden by the relentless rain and mist.
“How ghastly,” she commented, periodically.
Vyvyan, however, simply stared dully at the interior of the carriage. To lose ones parents, so suddenly, and at such a young age, was a terrible burden. Furthermore, he could not bear the countryside, and the thought of an extended period in the small seaside town of Whitby seemed incredibly tedious. But now that his parents were gone, he had no family left to call upon, so it was all that he could do to accept the kind offer made by the Rose family.
Although his face was marked by sorrow, Vyvyan Sellars’ good looks were still evident. He did not possess the sickly pallor so fashionable of late, and his hair was possibly too long to be acceptable, but there was something about him – an articulate character, an eloquence that made him unconventionally appealing.
“Oh, Mr. Sellars, look!” Miss Rose exclaimed, lightly toughing his arm.
Her pale blue eyes were wide as she looked out of the rain-washed window. Almost at once, he saw what had alarmed her. Out on the moor, there seemed to be the shadows of men emerging from the mist. They were too shapeless to properly make out, and they were too far away from the carriage.
“What do you suppose they are?” Miss Rose asked, in a whisper.
“I cannot tell,” replied Vyvyan, his brow furrowed. “The weather is too foul for people to walk about on the moors.”
“People? You think they are people, Mr. Sellars?”
“Of course,” he replied, more briskly. “What else could they be? Miss Rose, you do not believe in ghost stories?”
His tone had a note of severity in it, and she seemed a little embarrassed, not speaking again until they had reached Whitby. Vyvyan, for his part, did not like the atmosphere of the moors. Miss Rose seemed to find something romantic about them, but to his mind, they were just rain-soaked wilderness. He conjectured to himself that his companion probably read too many novels and took seriously ghost-tales.
After an unquantifiable period of time, the carriage arrived in Whitby. It wound through narrow, cobbled streets east of the river, coming to a halt at The Gryphon Inn. Miss Rose and her companion were conducted to two adjacent rooms with views over the river. It had been a long journey from Harrogate, and even more so for Vyvyan, who had travelled up from London just the day before. This being the case, both retired to their rooms without speaking.
Once he had settled in to his unfamiliar new surroundings, Vyvyan took a chair by the window and surveyed the town below. The fierce rain had not followed them here; it was only drizzling now, but the sky was a muter grey. It was dreadful weather for the end of spring, Vyvyan remarked to himself. It only added to his depressive mood of late. With these thoughts in mind, he spread himself out on his bed; face down, with a deep sigh.
Hover through the fog and filthy air.”
-Macbeth
“I kiss’d thee ere I kill’d thee. No way but this-
killing myself, to die upon a kiss”
-Othello
The road through the North Yorkshire moors was enveloped in thick mist. The carriage traversed highways along the wild, purple hills and the air was damp with moisture.
Inside the carriage, conversation was scarce, owing to the fact that its two occupants were the shy Miss Violet Rose, of Harrogate, a girl as pale as to be almost invisible and with the wispy blonde hair of a child, and Mr. Vyvyan Sellars, Esq., the recently orphaned son of a wealthy banker, who had been overcome with grief. It was in great part due to the parents of Miss Rose, friends of the recently deceased Sellars, who had arranged this trip to Whitby, to help the young Vyvyan recover from his loss, and also in the hope that he would become attached to Miss Rose. She was really such a gentle, quiet girl, that she really would be the best company for the grief-stricken young man. She was far too fragile to become a debutant in London society, so her parents reasoned that this might be the only opportunity to introduce her to a suitable young man.
Outside, the wind whipped the low stone walls which intersected the landscape. Miss Rose was occupied with the scenery, although it was largely hidden by the relentless rain and mist.
“How ghastly,” she commented, periodically.
Vyvyan, however, simply stared dully at the interior of the carriage. To lose ones parents, so suddenly, and at such a young age, was a terrible burden. Furthermore, he could not bear the countryside, and the thought of an extended period in the small seaside town of Whitby seemed incredibly tedious. But now that his parents were gone, he had no family left to call upon, so it was all that he could do to accept the kind offer made by the Rose family.
Although his face was marked by sorrow, Vyvyan Sellars’ good looks were still evident. He did not possess the sickly pallor so fashionable of late, and his hair was possibly too long to be acceptable, but there was something about him – an articulate character, an eloquence that made him unconventionally appealing.
“Oh, Mr. Sellars, look!” Miss Rose exclaimed, lightly toughing his arm.
Her pale blue eyes were wide as she looked out of the rain-washed window. Almost at once, he saw what had alarmed her. Out on the moor, there seemed to be the shadows of men emerging from the mist. They were too shapeless to properly make out, and they were too far away from the carriage.
“What do you suppose they are?” Miss Rose asked, in a whisper.
“I cannot tell,” replied Vyvyan, his brow furrowed. “The weather is too foul for people to walk about on the moors.”
“People? You think they are people, Mr. Sellars?”
“Of course,” he replied, more briskly. “What else could they be? Miss Rose, you do not believe in ghost stories?”
His tone had a note of severity in it, and she seemed a little embarrassed, not speaking again until they had reached Whitby. Vyvyan, for his part, did not like the atmosphere of the moors. Miss Rose seemed to find something romantic about them, but to his mind, they were just rain-soaked wilderness. He conjectured to himself that his companion probably read too many novels and took seriously ghost-tales.
After an unquantifiable period of time, the carriage arrived in Whitby. It wound through narrow, cobbled streets east of the river, coming to a halt at The Gryphon Inn. Miss Rose and her companion were conducted to two adjacent rooms with views over the river. It had been a long journey from Harrogate, and even more so for Vyvyan, who had travelled up from London just the day before. This being the case, both retired to their rooms without speaking.
Once he had settled in to his unfamiliar new surroundings, Vyvyan took a chair by the window and surveyed the town below. The fierce rain had not followed them here; it was only drizzling now, but the sky was a muter grey. It was dreadful weather for the end of spring, Vyvyan remarked to himself. It only added to his depressive mood of late. With these thoughts in mind, he spread himself out on his bed; face down, with a deep sigh.
♠ ♠ ♠
Whitby was made famous by Bram Stoker's novel, Dracula, which will become important to the plot later in the story. I took the (somewhat unusual) name of 'Vyvyan' from the name of Oscar Wilde's second son.