Saraband for Two Sisters

Mrs. Cherry had changed. Her grief possessed her; she made a wreath of leaves and laid it on her son’s grave. I was glad that she bore no resentment against her husband, for she seemed so lost and bewildered that she might well have done.

Her color had changed; the network of veins was more visible. She was more silent than she had been. I thought how strange it was that people harbored secrets of which we were unaware. I couldn’t forget her round rosy face, which seemed to match her name, and to discover that all the time she was nursing this bitter secret made me see her in a new light.

As the weeks passed we returned to the wartime pattern. We were alert as ever for approaching enemies but we were all aware that the most ardent Parliamentary soldiers could not have been more terrifying than the madman who could so easily have entered the house while we slept.

It was November-a month of mists and bare trees, green berries on the ivy, and spider webs festooning the hedges.

My baby was due to be born in three months’ time and I longed For February and the first jasmine and snowdrops. It seemed long in coming.

It was during this month that the terrible conviction came to me that someone was trying to kill me.

There were times when I laughed at my fancies, and I could not bring myself to talk of them, even to Bersaba. I kept telling myself, “Women have strange fancies, don’t they, when they are in this condition? They are said to be irrational, to crave strange things, to imagine things are what they are not.”

And here was this fancy within me, an eerie conviction that I was being watched and followed. When I went into the quieter places of the house-the Castle Room, the chapel or the spiral stairs, with its steps which were so narrow on one side-I would be aware of danger. “Be careful of that staircase,” said Bersaba. “It could be dangerous. If you tripped on that it could be disastrous for the child.” Once, when it was dusk and I was coming down the staircase, I had the feeling that someone was watching me from behind. I fancied I could almost hear the sound of breathing.

I stopped short and said, “Is anyone there?” and I thought I heard a quick intake of breath and then the faint rustle of clothing. I hurried down, though taking care with every step, and went to my room to lie on the bed to recover. I felt my child move within me then and I laid my hands on it reassuringly. I was going to make sure that all was well with it. Later I admonished myself. What was I thinking of? I believed I knew what had happened to me. The memory of that madman creeping up to the house had unnerved me. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. How could I when Mrs. Cherry looked so sad and poor Cherry behaved as though he carried a load of sin on his shoulders? My imagination kept presenting me with pictures of what might have happened. I could imagine myself waking up to find him in my room. I pictured his creeping into the children’s room and looking down on those innocent little faces.

I could hear Cherry’s voice: “He took a pleasure in torturing and killing animals ... and later he wanted to do the same to human beings.” He is dead, I reminded myself.

But such an incident was bound to have its effect on anyone as nervous as I had become, and the feeling of being watched persisted. I gave up going to the Castle Room. It was a climb up the stairs and I was getting unwieldy, I told myself. But it was not really that. The place seemed so isolated and I was fearful of being alone.— Then one night I was sure.

Bersaba had brought in my milk. I dozed and then fell into a disturbed sleep. I dreamed that a figure came into my room, stopped by my bed, slipped something into my milk, and then went swiftly and quietly from the room.

I awoke with a start and my hair really did stand up on my head, for as I opened my eyes I saw the door closing.

I called out sharply, “Who’s that?”

The door shut. I distinctly heard it. I got out of bed, went to the door and opened it, but there was no one in the corridor.

I returned to my bed and looked at the milk. I could see that something had been put into it, because it had not yet completely dissolved.

I sat on the edge of my bed and thought, “Someone is trying to harm me. It is not my imagination.”

I lay on my bed, fighting the impulse to go in to Bersaba. I had told her how uneasy I felt, and she had brushed that aside. “It’s your condition,” she had said. “And you were always inclined to be nervous.” She would say that I had dreamed it.

I picked up the milk and smelled it. There was no odor.

For some time I looked at it and then threw it out the window. I had made up my mind that the next time someone came into my room I was going to be awake and speak to whoever came to tamper with my milk and ask why they wanted to harm me and my child.