Saraband for Two Sisters

Bastian went to Castle Paling. I was up at the top of our house to see him go. He did not know that I watched him and saw him turn and look at the house in anguish. I had finished with Bastian. I had made him suffer as I had, and this was indeed true, for I knew that he had loved me. I had learned too the exhilarating fact that there was within me a certain attraction which had not been diminished by my illness. Moreover, I had my journey to plan and although I felt some sadness at leaving my parents I could not help but be excited at the prospect of adventure ahead and, of course, reunion with my sister. I loved my family but not with the same dedication which I think the rest of them shared. I was too self-centered for that and I had always known that my own desires and inclination must be of greater importance to me than those of others. I think many people shared this characteristic, but I had the rare virtue that I could see it and admit it. But my relationship with my sister was outside affection and family bonds; it was a mystic union. After all, we had begun life together even before we had made our appearance in the world. We were in a way necessary to each other. I sensed that in her letters. She had a husband and I was sure she loved him, but that was not enough for her. She needed me too; and in my way I needed her.

I tried to explain this to my parents because I was aware of my good fortune in possessing such; I did not have to because my mother immediately understood and told me that she was happy it should be so. Much as she hated parting from me and my sister, our happiness was of far greater importance to her than her own sorrow, and the fact that there was this bond between us had always been a great comfort to her. ‘Tour father is staying for some time,” she told me, “and Fennimore will not go to sea again in the foreseeable future. I am content with that, and if you can be happy with Angelet, my darling child, it is all I ask.”

I told Phoebe I was going and did not mention that she would come •with me. For a few moments I savored desolation which parting with me would bring her. Then I said, “You foolish girl, you are coming with me. I shall need a maid and can you think I would take anyone else?”

She fell on her knees-she was a little dramatic, poor Phoebe-and clasped my skirts, which was a most awkward and undignified posture, as I told her sharply. She rose then, her eyes shining with admiration.

It was small wonder that life was growing rosy for me.

I wrote and told Angelet that I should soon be setting out and that brought an ecstatic response. She longed to see me. She could not wait for me. She had so much to tell me.

There was a letter which amused me from the General. It was addressed to my parents. It was extremely stilted and precise, written in handwriting which was small and neat, and yet somehow bold.

He would welcome me, he said. I would be a great comfort to Angelet, who had just had an unfortunate experience. He was discreetly referring to the child she had lost. He had mapped out my journey, which he was able to do with some knowledge, for he traveled the country a good deal in the course of his duty. He mentioned the most satisfactory inns with accounts of their virtues and shortcomings. I was very amused. The Monarch’s Head, in Dorchester, was a worthy stopping place; they would care well for the horses. The White Horse, in Taunton, was another good inn and so on. My final resting place should be at the Bald Faced Stag, in the village of Hampton, and I should reach it if I followed his route on the thirtieth of August, providing I left on the date I had suggested.

My mother said, “I think he is the sort of man who would take good care of his wife, as he has gone to such trouble to make your journey easy.” I was amused. “Poor Angelet!” I thought. “No wonder she is in need of comfort.”

The Juice of the Poppy

MY spirits were high as I set out. My mother was a little sad, but determined not to show it, and with my father beside her she could not be completely so. They, with my brother Fennimore, were in the courtyard when I mounted and as I turned to take a last look at my mother I wondered when I should see her again. Phoebe was almost ecstatic. She was with me, which seemed all she needed to make her happy, and I think too she was secretly relieved to be leaving and putting so many miles between her and her self-righteous father. She had lived in terror of the blacksmith’s catching her one day and taking her back to the life from which she had escaped.

It was a lovely morning. Whenever I smell the pungent odor of water mint I shall remember it; whenever I see barber’s bush growing at random on wasteland I shall experience that feeling of wild exhilaration which was with me then. Phoebe and I rode together between two grooms in the lead and two behind, and I felt like singing as we went along.