by Syrie James
“I am pleased to have been of service.” His gentle accent, I decided, was of European origin, yet his English was perfect. He bowed, briefly removing his black top hat, still staring at me intently with those fascinating eyes, as if taken aback by the force of unexpected feelings.
I knew I should not engage in further conversation with him. He was a stranger, and I was a single woman, engaged to another, and here without a chaperone. Only one proper course of action was open to me, and I was well aware of it: I must curtsey silently and be on my way. And yet…I could not bring myself to do it. Instead, I studied the straw bonnet in my hands, a simple affair, unadorned except for a white ribbon and a small cluster of flowers, and said:
“You were very brave, sir, to—to rush so close to the cliff edge like that, just for a hat. It was quite dangerous.”
He seemed to collect himself and gave me a warm smile. “It appeared to be an article that you wished very much to rescue. I did not think of the danger.”
There was, I decided (darting another glance in his direction) an inexplicable hint of “danger” in everything about him, which made him seem at once exotic and mysterious—but which, I told myself, had more to do with the fact that he was so very attractive that I could not take my eyes off him, than it did with anything particular about the man himself.
“It is not an expensive hat by any means, as you can see,” I replied, “but I have had it a long while, and I have grown attached to it. And it is all the more valuable, in that it—it is the only hat I have with me.” Good Lord, I thought, why was I babbling on like an idiot about my hat?
“Ah,” he said, as we started back in the direction from which I had come, “then I take it you do not live in Whitby?”
“No. I have been here but a fortnight. I am on holiday with a friend and her mother.”
“I am a visitor here as well. I arrived in Whitby only yesterday.”
“Where are you from, sir?”
He looked at me, then replied: “Austria.”
“I have seen pictures of Austria, and from all accounts, it is a lovely country.”
“It is indeed; but this is also a lovely place, is it not? There is such a marvellous view from these cliffs. The sea is so beautiful, so restless, and so endless. I never tire of looking at it. We do not have such sights back home.”
“I have always loved the sea-side, at any time of year. Although, if you arrived in Whitby only yesterday, you must have found last night’s storm a rather rude welcoming.”
“The storm—yes. It was fearsome.” As we passed a cliff-side artist who was painting the broken ship on the sands below, the gentleman paused briefly to admire the work. “Your perspective is very interesting,” he told the painter, “and your choice of colours is very pleasing to the eye.”
The artist acknowledged the compliment with a smile and a nod. Just then, I noticed my errant hat-pin lying on the gravel pathway by the bench where I had been sitting. I quickly retrieved it and stopped to refasten my hat.
“Are these yours as well?” the gentleman asked, referring to my book and journal, which were lying on the path a few feet away, their pages fluttering in the breeze.
“Yes, they are.”
He retrieved them. As he dusted off my journal, his attention was drawn to the open page and the loops, squiggles, and other strange symbols inscribed there. I was a little embarrassed that a stranger’s eye had fallen on my private diary, but at the same time relieved by the unusual method I had employed in writing it.
“Forgive me,” he said, “if I enquire too freely, but is this written in some new form of shorthand—or as I think you call it—stenography?”
“It is,” I replied, surprised that he was familiar with this abbreviated, symbolic writing method.
“A fascinating system, is it not—as old as the Acropolis stone from Ancient Greece. The way it allows one to write with increased speed and brevity, as quickly as people speak.”
“Yes, and at the same time it achieves total privacy, for it makes that writing unintelligible to most others—which is ideal for keeping a diary.”
He smiled. “I am familiar with a number of methods, but this one I do not recognise.”
“It is called Gregg’s shorthand. It was published two years ago, and is not yet commonly employed. I have only just learned the art, so that I might be able to—” I hesitated. To go on with my thought would, I feared, put an abrupt end to a pleasant conversation I truly wished to continue; but the truth could not be avoided. He had a right to know, at once, that I was betrothed to another. “I learned stenography,” I went on, “so that I might be of some help to my fiancé in his work. He is a solicitor, you see. I hope to be able to take down what he says, and then transcribe it for him on the typewriter.”
At this admission, the gentleman’s smile briefly faded; but he quickly recovered his aplomb and said, “So you are adept with a typewriter as well as stenography? These are very unusual skills. Your fiancé is a lucky man to have so learned, so devoted, and so beautiful a companion. A very lucky man indeed.”
My cheeks grew warm, not only from his words of praise but from the admiration in his eyes as he spoke them. “Thank you, sir, but I feel that I am the lucky one. Jonathan is a good man.”
He did not comment on that but only paused and glanced about us, saying, “He is not here with you, I presume, as you said you travelled with a friend and her mother?”
“He is on a business trip overseas and has not yet returned.”
“I see. In the meantime, you are quite at leisure, yes?” Before I could reply, he added, “I have not yet had an opportunity to explore the area. The ruined abbey looks most intriguing. Would you do me the honour of joining me on a tour about the grounds?”
As he looked down at me, my heart began to pound in a strange, frenzied cadence. We had been conversing a few minutes only, yet there was something about this man, about his eyes, that was so mesmerising, I could hardly bear to tear my gaze from his. I could not deny it: I was very attracted to him, and he seemed to be attracted to me. Oh! I thought: these new-found feelings which were coursing through me—although undeniably thrilling—were wrong; very wrong, indeed.
He must have read my thoughts on my face, for he said: “There is nothing improper about our walking and talking together. We are simply two modern people, conversing in broad daylight, and there are plenty of others about.”
I opened my mouth to decline—but instead I heard myself say, “I would be delighted to accompany you,” and before I knew it, I was falling in step with him along the gravel path.
“I could not help but notice the title of your book.” He nodded towards the tome I was carrying. “On the Origin of Species. A most interesting choice.”
“Are you familiar with it?”
“I am indeed. It is a seminal work in scientific literature.”
“I find Darwin’s theory of evolution most interesting. The idea that populations evolve over the course of generations, through a process of natural selection—”
“—And that only the fittest survive—”
“—And form new species—”
“Yes!” he returned, with animation. “The ideas have been around long before Charles Darwin published his book; some have traced the concept as far back as Aristotle. But Darwin’s theories have at last brought it to the attention of the general public.”
“The book has aroused such heated debate!”
“Which is not surprising. Darwin’s theory has called into question the validity of many long-held religious doctrines—”
“—Such as Creationism—”
“—And the much-cherished hierarchy of man over beast.”
“I suppose it does come as a great shock to some,” I said with a smile, “to consider that humans are no longer the undisputed crown of creation.”
“Indeed, yes. We are merely another link in a great chain.” He returned my smile, adding: “Your taste in reading intrigues me. I
would have expected a young lady like yourself to be more interested in popular novels than the theories of evolution.”
“Oh, but I do love novels! I have read nearly everything by Dickens, George Eliot, and Jane Austen, and I must have read Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre a dozen times.”
“I, too, have enjoyed the work of these authors. Do you read poetry as well?”
“I do. In fact, I believe there is a scene in Scott’s Marmion that was set right here, at Whitby Abbey.”
“Yes: a nun was walled up alive for breaking her vows.”
“Exactly! Scott wrote with such verve, did he not?”
“And such a wonderful use of language: ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave—’”
We finished the quotation together: “—‘when first we practice to deceive!’”
We shared a laugh. As we talked on, discussing our favorite works by Shakespeare, Wordsworth, and Byron, a little thrill raced up my spine. I could not recall the last time I had had such an interesting conversation with a man—or with any other person, for that matter. Lucy had never been a great reader; the other teachers at school had generally been too tired and overworked to read for pleasure in their spare time; and although Jonathan had been well schooled in literature and greatly enjoyed reading, he now mainly perused newspapers, magazines, and law journals.
We were approaching St. Mary’s. “What an interesting church,” my companion said, as he swerved towards a side-path leading away from it. “It more resembles a castle or citadel than a house of God.”
“Have you had an opportunity to go inside the church, sir? It is very different from the exterior, and quite beautiful.”
“It is such a fine day, I would much rather remain outdoors, if you have no objection.”
I said that I did not; and as we walked on towards the abbey, he commented: “You seem very young to have had such a wide-ranging exposure to literature. Did you do all this reading at school?”
“I did. I was fortunate enough to attend a school with an excellent library. I later taught at the same institution. What about you? Were you educated here in England?”
“No. This is the first time I have visited your country.”
“The first time? That is remarkable, sir, for your English is excellent—perfect, in fact.”
“I have been studying your tongue for a long time now, and have had several teachers…but I know that I still require improvement.” He smiled modestly, and added: “You said just now that you are a school-teacher. Do you enjoy it?”
“I love it! Or—I did. I think teaching a most noble profession. I was obliged to resign my position just before coming to Whitby, for the school is just outside London, and Jonathan lives and works in Exeter. I cried when I had to say good-bye to my pupils and my friends among the teaching staff, for they had all become very dear to me.”
“Let us hope that you can find a similar post in Exeter, where you will be equally as happy.”
“Oh no! That would never do. Jonathan does not like the idea of my working after we are married—that is, except for any small duties I can perform to help with his business.”
He regarded me with open surprise. “This is a very old-fashioned idea, for such a modern young lady.”
“Is it? I do not think so, sir. In any case, I have never really thought of myself as modern.”
“And yet you are,” he said, with an admiring smile. “You are intelligent, well-read, and well educated. You have a profession. You have achieved financial independence. You have mastered some of the newest inventions and skills. And you have, I assume, made your choice of husband entirely of your own free will?”
“I have,” I replied with a laugh.
“Furthermore, you have proven that you are willing daringly to defy certain established social conventions.” At this, he made a silent gesture, which included himself, myself, and the abbey grounds, which we were passing through together. As I laughed again, he went on: “I would think that to-day’s New Woman would give great thought to what she wants after marriage, and not just to what society dictates, or what her husband expects.”
“Sir: although I may appear to be an advocate of the New Woman’s ideals, I have reached my situation in life more by necessity than design. All my life, until I began teaching, I was dependent on the charity of others for my education and subsistence. I worked for a living because I was obliged to support myself, although I did grow to love it. I admit: I cringe a bit when I think that, in future, I shall have to ask my husband for every penny for even the smallest purchase. But Jonathan is rather fixed in his habits and has a rigid sense of propriety. I look forward to being his wife, to managing our home, and—” (I added with a blush) “—to having a family. I want to make him happy.”
A dark look crossed his countenance, and he fell silent for a moment, looking away. “Well. As I said before: he is a very lucky man.”
Just then, the church bells tolled the hour of one o’clock. I gave a sudden gasp. “Oh! I am so sorry. I forgot the time. I promised to meet my friends for luncheon at one—and now I am late.”
“I, too, have some place I must be.”
I held out my gloved hand to him. “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir. I very much enjoyed our conversation.”
“As did I, Miss—?”
“Murray.”
“Good day, Miss Murray.” He took my hand in his, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. I shivered. Was that shiver induced by the pressure of his grip and the brief touch of his lips—which felt strangely cool, despite the fabric of my glove, which separated his flesh from mine? Or was that shiver the product of the confluence of emotions which continued to course through me? “I hope we will meet again,” he said, releasing my hand with a bow.
“Good day.” I hurried to the steps and started down, permitting myself only one brief, backwards glance. He was watching me. As our gazes touched, he smiled and bowed again.
It was only when I reached our lodgings at the Royal Crescent that I realised I had never asked him his name.
ALL THROUGHOUT THAT AFTERNOON AND EVENING, I COULD NOT stop thinking about my encounter with the gentleman in the churchyard, an event I recalled with both pleasure and guilt. I did not breathe a word about it to Lucy—and I had always told Lucy everything.
Why this strange need for secrecy? I asked myself, as I lay in my bed that night in the darkness. Our encounter had been entirely proper. Why was I unwilling to record it in my journal or share it with my best friend? Perhaps, I thought, it was because in the course of my conversation with the gentleman that day, I had felt more excited, more alive, and more intellectually stimulated, than in any dialogue I had shared with Jonathan in years. How could I admit that to any one—even to myself? Such thoughts and feelings were wrong, very wrong, and entirely disloyal to Jonathan.
As for Lucy: she was so beautiful, and men were generally so bewitched by her, that I often felt invisible when in her presence. Yet in this gentleman’s presence—(oh! Why had I not asked for his name?)—I had felt beautiful; I had felt bewitching. It was ludicrous, I knew; I was engaged to be married, and so was Lucy. Yet somehow, I wished to keep the experience to myself.
IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED, AS LUCY AND I WANDERED ALONG the sunny cliffs and through the town, I found myself actively searching the crowd for the gentleman I had met in the churchyard. Every time I caught sight of a tall, well-dressed man in black, I would turn in silent anticipation, only to find myself repeatedly disappointed. Where had he disappeared to? Whitby was a small place, and yet there was no sign of him anywhere.
Then a thought occurred to me: why on earth would a man as wealthy, well-informed, and breath-takingly handsome as he, waste a moment on a former school-teacher like myself, who had made it abundantly clear that she was unavailable? Surely, I decided, he was only being polite when he had asked me to walk with him that day, and when he had said he hoped we would meet again. The intense interest I had sensed from him was, no doubt, only a
projection of my own interest in him. With a sigh, I resigned myself to the fact that our chance meeting was to be a one-time occurrence—which is just as it ought to be, I reprimanded myself sternly.
ON THE 10TH OF AUGUST, TWO DAYS AFTER THE DEMETER HAD so tragically beached itself on the Whitby shore, Lucy and I ventured out early to our favourite seat on the cliff, to watch the funeral cortège of the ship’s poor sea captain. The towns people turned out in full force to honour the dead man. Lucy and I were both saddened by the proceedings and unnerved by the bizarre circumstances which lay behind them—particularly when I shared with her the details of the extraordinary account about the Russian ship in the local newspaper.
“The article says that the only cargo on board the Demeter was a set of fifty boxes of earth, which were unloaded and dispatched by a consignment company on the day of its arrival,” I explained.
“What unusual cargo!” Lucy replied. “What could any one want with fifty boxes of earth?”
“It is very peculiar, indeed. But far more strange—and terrifying—was the addendum to the captain’s log, which was discovered hidden in a bottle in the dead captain’s pocket.”
“What did it say?”
“He wrote that ten days out at sea, a member of the crew was found missing. A strange man was spotted on board, but no stowaways were found. Then, one by one, the sailors began to disappear, until only the first mate and the captain were left. By this time, the mate had gone stark raving mad with fear. He told the captain—” (here I read aloud from the account in the Daily Graph)—“‘It is here; I know it, now. On the watch last night I saw it, like a man, tall and thin, and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind It, and gave It my knife; but the knife went through It, empty as the air!’
“The mate went down to the hold to search the boxes they were carrying on board. He came back up like a shot, screaming in terror that only the sea could save them, and he threw himself overboard! Now only the captain alone remained to sail the ship. He first determined that the mate was a madman, and that it was the mate himself who had killed all the crew; but the next day, the captain says he saw It—or Him. In terror, he lashed himself and his crucifix to the wheel, to—in his own words—‘baffle this fiend or monster,’ and stay with his ship to the end.”
