Gossamer Cord

“It is so good to be able to talk in English,” said the young man. “My German is somewhat inadequate.”

“And so is ours,” said Dorabella. “But we have someone with us who is quite good.”

“A friend?”

“Well, a friend of the family. He is like a brother…only not really.”

He waited for us to explain, but as neither of us went any further there was a brief silence. Then Dorabella said: “We are visiting a friend, really. He came to England and suggested we come here for a visit. That’s how it was.”

“I’m very glad you did. It’s comforting to meet someone English…although I’m not exactly English.”

“Oh?” we both said in surprise.

“Cornish,” he said with a grimace.

“But…”

“A little quibble. The Tamar divides us and we always maintain that we are a race apart from those people on the other side of it.”

“Like the Scottish and the Welsh,” I said.

“Celtic pride,” he replied. “We think we are as good as…no, better than…those Anglo-Saxons…as we call you foreigners.”

“Oh dear,” said Dorabella in mock dismay. “And I was thinking what fun it was to meet someone of our own race.”

He looked at her earnestly. “It is,” he said. “It has made this a most interesting day for me.”

“Tell us about Cornwall,” I said. “Do you live near the sea?”

“Sometimes it seems too near…almost in it, in fact.”

“That must be fascinating.”

“I love the old place. Where is your home?”

“Hampshire.”

“Some distance from Cornwall.”

“Are you looking forward to going home?” asked Dorabella.

“Not at this moment.”

“Shall you be walking tomorrow?”

“I let each day take care of itself.”

I could see that Dorabella was enjoying this encounter. Her eyes were shining; she looked very attractive and I noticed how his gaze kept straying to her. It did not surprise me. I had seen it so many times before.

She was telling him, in her animated fashion, about Caddington, and he responded with some details of his home in Cornwall.

He told us his name was Dermot Tregarland. “An old Cornish name,” he pointed out. “We seem to be either Tre, Pol, or Pen. It is like a label. ‘Where e’er you hear Tre, Pol, and Pen, you’ll always know ’tis Cornishmen.’ It’s an old saying I heard somewhere and it is true.”

And so the talk went on until I said—although I was aware of Dorabella’s displeasure—that it was time we returned to the schloss.

We said goodbye and started back.

Dorabella said angrily: “Why did you want to leave as abruptly as that?”

“Look at the time! They would be wondering where we were. Don’t forget we were about to leave when he came up.”

“What did it matter?” There was a pause and she added: “He didn’t say anything about seeing us again.”

“Why should he?”

“I thought he might.”

“Oh, Dorabella,” I said. “It was a chance encounter. ‘Ships that pass in the night.’ It was only because he heard that we were speaking English that he stopped.”

“Was that all, do you think?” She was smiling now…secretly.

The next day the weather had changed and there was a distinctly definite touch of autumn in the air. Kurt and Edward had planned an excursion to one of the mountain villages, and it had naturally been taken for granted that we would accompany them.

However, Dorabella decided that she must do some shopping in the town. I understood, of course. She wanted to go into Waldenburg and sit outside the coffee shop in the hope that the young man of yesterday would pass by again.

And, of course, I wanted to be with Dorabella. I must, because she could not very well go alone.

We watched Edward and Kurt go off, spent an idle morning, and after lunch went into the town.

We did a little shopping for souvenirs and in due course arrived at the coffee shop. The waiter gave us his welcoming smile and we sat down—Dorabella in a state of expectation, I amused and a little cynical, wondering what she thought would be the outcome of this chance encounter.

We talked desultorily while Dorabella was watchful. She had placed herself looking on the street, the way he had come before, and as time passed she was becoming more and more despondent.

A horse and trap went by, and then some riders—two young girls with an instructor; then a van drew up and a young man stepped out. He was delivering something to the coffee shop.

As I watched him carrying in a large box, I thought there was something familiar about him. He disappeared into the shop, and after a while came out carrying a sheaf of papers. The waiter was with him and they chatted for a while.

Then I recognized the young man.

I said: “Oh, look! Do you see who that is? It is Else’s young man.”

Dorabella’s thoughts were elsewhere. She looked at me impatiently.

“What?” she said.

“That young man who is delivering something. He’s Else’s young man. You remember. We saw him from our window. He’s her lover. We saw them embracing the other night.”

“Oh, yes…I remember.” Dorabella was not interested in that particular young man.

He was standing by the van now. He called out in German, which I could understand: “Tomorrow night, then. See you there.”