Abstract Ethics
The Cliff Tops Revisited
The walk along the cliff tops which Miss Rose had so earnestly requested was hardly reminiscent of their first journey that way. Vyvyan met Miss Rose under the whalebones, and her appearance at first startled him. She looked sickly and drawn, and her white and pink gown seemed too large for her frame. They walked quietly along the path, stopping at the railings to look down into the sea.
‘The great British weather, so unpredictable’ Vyvyan thought, as he observed the choppy and churning grey waters. It was true. The pleasant sun and skies which had held out over the past fortnight had given way to wind and the threat of rain. The occasional droplet dampened his check.
“To think it had scarcely been three weeks since we arrived,” Vyvyan remarked, keen to break the silence.
“To think that so much has changed,” Miss Rose replied, sadly.
“I don’t quite know what you mean.”
Miss Rose took her eyes away from the sea and fixed her sorrowful irises on Vyvyan. “Don’t you, Mr Sellars?”
He shook his head.
“We are all in such danger, Mr Sellars,” she began, but before she could continue further, Vyvyan interrupted her.
“Now really, Miss Rose, if this is another superstitious ghost tale-”
It was his turn to be interrupted. “They are not ghost tales!” she exclaimed, stamping her foot. “Oh, if only you would open your eyes and see past such stubborn scepticism. All of our lives are at stake.”
Vyvyan gave a derogatory snort, but privately he was surprised at the sudden passion of the normally placid Miss Rose.
“You cannot expect me to fear something which is undefined. At the very least, reveal to me exactly what it is that threatens us all.”
Miss Rose gave a nervous twitch. She steeled herself, and then whispered “you do not know, I suppose, of the Contessa Gregoraci’s involvement in certain…supernatural phenomena?”
“Really,” he said, angrily. “If all your accusations are based on salacious rumours of the Contessa belonging to some kind of cult, then I tell you that it is idle gossip, and hysteria of the most foolish kind.”
He was burning with anger at this slight on the woman he had become so attached to. He was quite sure that Miss Rose was simply jealous of the Contessa, whose beauty enlivened such as passion in Vyvyan that Miss Rose could never hope to replicate.
“Mr Sellars” beseeched Miss Rose, almost tearfully, “Vyvyan. Please, believe me.”
Saying this, she placed a hand on his arm. He stared at her for a second. Could he believe her? At that very moment, a powerful gust of wind blew in off the North Sea, wrenching Miss Rose’s silk parasol from her hand. She gave a cry of surprise. Quickly, Vyvyan caught the parasol before the air could claim it, and handed it back to Miss Rose, with a stony expression on his face.
“Miss Rose, I simply cannot believe you. Good day.”
Having said this, he turned and walked away from her, a diminishing figure under the storm-clouded skies. Miss Rose stood alone on the cliff top, a frail white figure against the grey, tears forming in her eyes and wringing her hands.
‘The great British weather, so unpredictable’ Vyvyan thought, as he observed the choppy and churning grey waters. It was true. The pleasant sun and skies which had held out over the past fortnight had given way to wind and the threat of rain. The occasional droplet dampened his check.
“To think it had scarcely been three weeks since we arrived,” Vyvyan remarked, keen to break the silence.
“To think that so much has changed,” Miss Rose replied, sadly.
“I don’t quite know what you mean.”
Miss Rose took her eyes away from the sea and fixed her sorrowful irises on Vyvyan. “Don’t you, Mr Sellars?”
He shook his head.
“We are all in such danger, Mr Sellars,” she began, but before she could continue further, Vyvyan interrupted her.
“Now really, Miss Rose, if this is another superstitious ghost tale-”
It was his turn to be interrupted. “They are not ghost tales!” she exclaimed, stamping her foot. “Oh, if only you would open your eyes and see past such stubborn scepticism. All of our lives are at stake.”
Vyvyan gave a derogatory snort, but privately he was surprised at the sudden passion of the normally placid Miss Rose.
“You cannot expect me to fear something which is undefined. At the very least, reveal to me exactly what it is that threatens us all.”
Miss Rose gave a nervous twitch. She steeled herself, and then whispered “you do not know, I suppose, of the Contessa Gregoraci’s involvement in certain…supernatural phenomena?”
“Really,” he said, angrily. “If all your accusations are based on salacious rumours of the Contessa belonging to some kind of cult, then I tell you that it is idle gossip, and hysteria of the most foolish kind.”
He was burning with anger at this slight on the woman he had become so attached to. He was quite sure that Miss Rose was simply jealous of the Contessa, whose beauty enlivened such as passion in Vyvyan that Miss Rose could never hope to replicate.
“Mr Sellars” beseeched Miss Rose, almost tearfully, “Vyvyan. Please, believe me.”
Saying this, she placed a hand on his arm. He stared at her for a second. Could he believe her? At that very moment, a powerful gust of wind blew in off the North Sea, wrenching Miss Rose’s silk parasol from her hand. She gave a cry of surprise. Quickly, Vyvyan caught the parasol before the air could claim it, and handed it back to Miss Rose, with a stony expression on his face.
“Miss Rose, I simply cannot believe you. Good day.”
Having said this, he turned and walked away from her, a diminishing figure under the storm-clouded skies. Miss Rose stood alone on the cliff top, a frail white figure against the grey, tears forming in her eyes and wringing her hands.