Would he be so foolhardy? She could not tell; she hardly knew him.
He hardly knew her, either— why would he make this dangerous gesture to impress a stranger? She would never have done it herself; perhaps she should not have encouraged him.
Perhaps she should not have come at all. Perhaps remaining in Cornwall was only nestling into the cracks in her life, hiding there, and consequently enlarging them. Perhaps it would be better to launch herself again, as soon as possible, into the busy and critical world she knew, and plaster over those fissures without examination.
Where was he? How long ought the swim to take? The dank fog was now so thorough that the cliff-faces near at hand, even the path back to the road, were completely indistinguishable in the overall pall. She was frozen in the midst of it: she could neither see nor assist him; she did not know if he needed assistance; she did not know why she was there, whether she should leave, or why she remained.
After an age of this uncertainty, her doubts were balked: the dog pricked his ears and sprang forward excitedly— Arabella looked, and discerned a figure emerging from the direction of the sea. But the doubts were soon triumphant again: the dog gave a yelping bark, cowered back, ears flattened, turned tail and ran away. The figure was not his master after all, and as the shadow condensed, Arabella saw that it was a young woman, moving determinedly towards her.
Her clothes were rather diaphanous, and Arabella’s first thought was how cold she must be; but the sight of underclad girls is so common in Cornwall, in any weather, that she refrained from remarking on it. Her hair was very long, and, wettened by the heavy dews, clung to her shoulders and back; she must have been out in the damp weather for a long time, or been swimming herself.
This last explained her presence there, but not her resolute approach, or the stern expression of her eyes as she fixed them on Arabella’s face. She did not stop until within an arm’s slight reach, and Arabella stepped back against the rocks in alarm as the strange woman spoke imperatively: ‘Now you must decide!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ She was astonished by her manner.
‘Don’t try to evade me,’ the woman returned angrily. ‘Speak up! I won’t wait. What’s it to be?’
‘What’s what to be?’ Arabella was annoyed in turn. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know well enough— you know who I mean. He’s mine, do you know that?’
Arabella quickly inferred all she needed: this must be some local beauty who had staked her claim on Seaglass, and resented any rival.
‘Is he?’ she replied coolly.
‘He is and always was.’
‘He may decide that for himself.’
‘You must decide!’ the other asserted then, and with a swift, violent movement, gripped Arabella’s wrist. Her hand was cold and soaking wet, and the strong fingers were relentless. ‘You are the one with the decision to make!’
‘Let me go!’ Arabella winced, frightened, as she struggled to free herself. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘I take no pleasure in coming here,’ she said, softening her tone, though not her grasp. ‘I can hardly bear it— but I will let you have him, if you say so.’
‘Let me? Who are you to give me permission to do anything? Get off me!’
‘He is mine to give,’ the woman responded. ‘I bore him, I set him here upon the shore with my heart in his hand. And now he’s out there, on the bosom of the water, to bring his own back to you. But I won’t suffer him to return if you don’t want him. I won’t allow him to smash that heart open on someone who doesn’t care. I’ll draw him down into the ocean with me, and keep him, rather than have you kill him. So what’s it to be?’
Arabella gaped at her in confusion. The demand made no sense, no matter how resolutely given. She did not want to listen— but she could not get away. The rushing breakers, instead of receding with the tide, seemed to increase their fury, and rivulets of sea water began to stream forth, cutting her off; even if she were released, she could not tell which way to run.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she stammered, ‘I think I—’
‘Don’t think, but answer!’ came the command. ‘Will you have his heart, and love it? Will you?’
‘Love—?’ She prized at the steadfast fingers.
‘Yes, and completely— or shall I bear him beneath the waves with me, to spare his sorrow? You must decide at once!’ —and with this third reiteration, she dropped her hold.
Arabella hugged back her grappled wrist and retreated from the appalling gaze. ‘I don’t know,’ she protested, glancing through the murk for some safe path. ‘I don’t know!’
Through a thinning haze she spied a ridge of pebbles leading landward, and darted for it, casting a fearful look at the woman, who regarded her shrewdly but did not move to pursue. Arabella was soon hurrying towards rising ground, and very quickly the atmosphere lightened.
She found the security of the path, and from that vantage risked another backward survey. The mist was dispersing rapidly; overhead, bright patches emerged. The cove became visible again, and she saw that the waterline had ebbed after all, but that she had been stood in a small gully. The woman had vanished— perhaps concealed momentarily as she passed behind a rock. Arabella was not sorry to miss her, and did not mean to encounter her twice: she hastened on up towards the road. There was no danger now that Seaglass would get lost, the visibility was so much improved, and besides, that fanatic girl could wait for him, since she was apparently so protective of his welfare. Arabella remembered that her ticket for the noon train was lying on the bed in the guest house.
As evening drew in, the old retired fisherman was surprised to hear Seaglass’s mongrel whining and scratching at the back door, with no sign of Seaglass nearby, which was unusual. As soon as the dog gained the man’s attention, he scampered off in the direction of the shore, barking frantically, and pausing to ensure he was still being followed. The darkness of dusk was increased by a heavy surge of cloud that pressed over the sky, and the old man, regarding it warily, muttered to himself that there was sure to be a storm. When he ambled onto the beach, the threatening aspect of the sea confirmed his opinion: roll after roll of surf thrashed upon the stones in quick succession, and out in the bay, giant sprays of foam pounded the solitary hump of rock. Having pursued the dog’s trail, he expected to find his son, but the cove was quite empty, and the poor animal skittered back and forth in helpless agitation.
The old man put up his collar and walked along the shingle, scouring it for glass, as he habitually did; but never again did he find a rare wonder cast up from the sea, such as he had done years ago; and nor did he ever find again what he first found then.
The end
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The Castaway: a modern folktale Page 4
