We went on talking of what we would do when we were married. We would explore the fair land of France together and then we would come home and live in his family house in Devonshire which I would learn was the most beautiful county in England. Nowhere else was the grass so green; nowhere else was there that red earth which meant fertility.
There the cream was richer, the beef more succulent. “You’ll be a lady of Devon, my dear Priscilla, when you marry me,” he said.
And so we sat there, with his arm about me and I lying close to him while we dreamed an hour or so away.
It was I who noticed that it was growing considerably darker. It could not be much more than three o’clock, and if this were so there should be another hour or so of daylight. Gregory had been warned that we should be back before dark, so we should leave the island by half-past four.
I said: “How dark it has grown. It must be later than we think.”
I stood up and was immediately conscious of the cold dampness of the air.
“It’s the sea mist,” said Jocelyn, and as we went out through the door, it was clear that he was indeed right.
“Why look!” he cried in dismay. “You can only see a few feet ahead.”
I stood beside him and he put his arm about me.
“We couldn’t even see to find the boat,” he went on.
“We’d better try,” I answered.
I tripped over a jutting stone and he caught me in time to prevent my fall.
“We shall have to be careful,” he warned. “You could have hurt yourself badly then.”
“You saved me, Jocelyn.”
“I’ll always be at your side to save you, I trust.”
I took his arm and clung to him. There seemed to be an ominous warning in the air.
It was indeed an eerie spot, with the mist enveloping everything and the stark grey ruins around us like the landscape of another world. There was no wind at all-no sound of the sea. It seemed as though Jocelyn and I were alone on another planet.
We looked at each other in dismay as the realization of our position struck us. I saw the moisture on his lashes and brows, and I felt waves of emotion surging over me because it occurred to me then how acute was the danger he was in, and that this time on the island was very precious indeed, for if his enemies captured him they might sever that fair head from his shoulders. Or they would put a rope about it.
I had never asked how his father had died. I did not want to know. I wanted to forget it had happened and make Jocelyn forget.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“There’s nothing we can do. We’d better get back inside the scriptorium. We’ve got our rugs and at least we shall be sheltered to some extent there. We had no idea how thick the mist was because we were shut in by those four walls.”
“Don’t you think we ought to try to get to the boat?”
“We might not find it and you saw how a moment ago you slipped. It would be difficult to see which way we were going. No, it’s safer to stay here until the mist clears.
Even if we found the boat, it would be folly to try to reach the mainland. We might drift right out to sea.”
He was right, of course. We went back to our rugs. It was certainly better within the walls of the scriptorium. We sat down on the rugs and he put an arm about me.
“The Fates are with us,” he said. “Here we are alone … isolated from the rest of the world, shut off by a blanket of mist. Don’t you find that an exciting prospect, Priscilla?”
“Of course, but I am wondering what will happen.”
“They know where we are, and they’ll know what has happened. They won’t be worried about us. They know we’ll have the good sense to stay here until the mist lifts.”
“That could be a very long time, Jocelyn.”
“Hardly likely. The wind will rise soon and carry it away.”
“I wonder what the time is?”
“It’s afternoon.”
“How long were we talking?”
“Does it matter?”
We sat close, leaning against one of the walls, and we talked again of our marriage which should take place without delay when we returned to the mainland. Everything seemed credible there in that quiet atmosphere of strange, whirling mist.
We had no idea what the tune was but we realized that it was getting late because it was growing darker and we could not even see the mist. But we were aware of it-damp and clinging. It was growing colder; Jocelyn held me tightly against him.
He said: “Suppose we spent the rest of our lives here? It doesn’t seem such a bad prospect.”
“How could we?”
“We could build a house and grow our own food. We could live the simple life like Adam and Eve.”
“It’s hardly the garden of Eden.”
“It would be paradise for me while you were there.”
It was lovers’ talk. There was no sense in it; yet it soothed and comforted, and there was something inevitable about the mist. We were held here by the forces of nature and we could not be blamed for taking these hours together.
I think that in our hearts there was a sort of desperation, a looming fear that life was not going to be as easy as we had deluded ourselves into believing it would be.
We ate the remains of the picnic; it was dark by now and the mist was more dense.
