Abstract Ethics
The Cliff Tops
In the morning, Vyvyan arose and went to breakfast. When he entered the breakfast room of the inn, a pleasant, brightly-lit room with views over the harbour, he saw that Miss Rose already occupied a table. A little reluctantly, he went to join her.
“Good morning, Mr. Sellars. Did you sleep well?”
“Fairly, yes,” he lied. Sleep was a difficult thing to come by with such a weight on his soul.
He noticed for the first time how Miss Rose’s large eyes seemed permanently wide in an expression of surprise. She sipped her tea solemnly as Vyvyan looked out of the window. The torrid weather of the previous night had abated, and instead Whitby was lit by bright rays of spring sunlight. Good weather was a tonic even for the gloomiest of spirits, and Vyvyan felt a sudden jerk of optimism. Now that the town was not covered with mist and rain, Whitby even seemed charming and quaint. Even Miss Rose seemed to have improved overnight, and Vyvyan could see that if only the girl could bring a little colour to her plain appearance, then she would be pretty.
“This is all very nice, isn’t it?” she said, waving a lace-gloved hand around the breakfast room.
“Indeed.”
In fact, the Inn was not of the standard that Vyvyan had come to expect from his lavish London life. However, they were not intended to lodge here for a great period of time. The parents of Miss Rose had arranged for them to stay with a wealthy friend, Lady Camilla Winterton, who spent her summers in Whitby along with her husband. In the meantime, The Gryphon was a reasonable substitute, although it was old and rather too pretty for Vyvyan’s tastes. He noted the large quantities of lace about the place, along with the pastel hued, striped walls. He could understand why Miss Rose liked it.
They spent the remainder of breakfast discussing how to spend their day. It seemed that there would be remarkably little to do until Lady Winterton arrived in town, although Vyvyan could not complain; the prospect of dancing and other social charades had a limited appeal to him as a grieving orphan. Miss Rose, who had visited Whitby several times before, suggested that they take a walk along the cliff tops. In no mood to argue, Vyvyan assented.
An hour later, as they glided past the colourful flowerbeds on the Royal Crescent, on a pathway along the cliff tops, Vyvyan hungrily inhale the salt air and cast an eye to the horizon. The Sky was a pale blue, but there was something peculiar in the clouds. They seemed to be the very image of a watercolour painting, blotted upon the sky, and although the centres of the clouds were pure white, their edges seemed stained with a darker blue, as though ink had bled into them. Miss Rose walked so closely to Vyvyan that they almost touched; he could sense that she had some idea of taking his arm, although shyness prevented her, and he did not offer it. Still, they walked on, talking little, with Miss Rose nervously twirling her parasol.
When they returned to The Gryphon that evening, they took a different entrance, stumbling along a narrow passageway, their eyes blinded after being out in the bright sun and then being plunged into these shadows. The passageway opened onto a narrow yet high-ceilinged room. Indeed, the ceiling was well-near invisible, blurred by clouds of smoke. The wooden panels upon the walls were almost black, and the room had no windows, being lit only by dim candles. As he lead Miss Rose to the staircase, Vyvyan became uncomfortably aware of a pair of eyes, disembodied by the gloom, staring fixedly at him.
He began to ascend the staircase; from the corner of his own eye he saw a brief flash of amber, and it was gone.
“Good morning, Mr. Sellars. Did you sleep well?”
“Fairly, yes,” he lied. Sleep was a difficult thing to come by with such a weight on his soul.
He noticed for the first time how Miss Rose’s large eyes seemed permanently wide in an expression of surprise. She sipped her tea solemnly as Vyvyan looked out of the window. The torrid weather of the previous night had abated, and instead Whitby was lit by bright rays of spring sunlight. Good weather was a tonic even for the gloomiest of spirits, and Vyvyan felt a sudden jerk of optimism. Now that the town was not covered with mist and rain, Whitby even seemed charming and quaint. Even Miss Rose seemed to have improved overnight, and Vyvyan could see that if only the girl could bring a little colour to her plain appearance, then she would be pretty.
“This is all very nice, isn’t it?” she said, waving a lace-gloved hand around the breakfast room.
“Indeed.”
In fact, the Inn was not of the standard that Vyvyan had come to expect from his lavish London life. However, they were not intended to lodge here for a great period of time. The parents of Miss Rose had arranged for them to stay with a wealthy friend, Lady Camilla Winterton, who spent her summers in Whitby along with her husband. In the meantime, The Gryphon was a reasonable substitute, although it was old and rather too pretty for Vyvyan’s tastes. He noted the large quantities of lace about the place, along with the pastel hued, striped walls. He could understand why Miss Rose liked it.
They spent the remainder of breakfast discussing how to spend their day. It seemed that there would be remarkably little to do until Lady Winterton arrived in town, although Vyvyan could not complain; the prospect of dancing and other social charades had a limited appeal to him as a grieving orphan. Miss Rose, who had visited Whitby several times before, suggested that they take a walk along the cliff tops. In no mood to argue, Vyvyan assented.
An hour later, as they glided past the colourful flowerbeds on the Royal Crescent, on a pathway along the cliff tops, Vyvyan hungrily inhale the salt air and cast an eye to the horizon. The Sky was a pale blue, but there was something peculiar in the clouds. They seemed to be the very image of a watercolour painting, blotted upon the sky, and although the centres of the clouds were pure white, their edges seemed stained with a darker blue, as though ink had bled into them. Miss Rose walked so closely to Vyvyan that they almost touched; he could sense that she had some idea of taking his arm, although shyness prevented her, and he did not offer it. Still, they walked on, talking little, with Miss Rose nervously twirling her parasol.
When they returned to The Gryphon that evening, they took a different entrance, stumbling along a narrow passageway, their eyes blinded after being out in the bright sun and then being plunged into these shadows. The passageway opened onto a narrow yet high-ceilinged room. Indeed, the ceiling was well-near invisible, blurred by clouds of smoke. The wooden panels upon the walls were almost black, and the room had no windows, being lit only by dim candles. As he lead Miss Rose to the staircase, Vyvyan became uncomfortably aware of a pair of eyes, disembodied by the gloom, staring fixedly at him.
He began to ascend the staircase; from the corner of his own eye he saw a brief flash of amber, and it was gone.