The Song of the Siren

I burned the gloves-both mine and Hessenfield’s. They gave off a strange light as they flared up. I thought there would be a conflagration, but after blazing for a few moments they subsided into a black powder.

I took up my pen and wrote in my journal of what had happened to me. I set it out and thought there might be some comfort in the writing of it.

I had told Jeanne that I wanted her to keep my journal and when messengers from my sister came to give it to them to take to her.

I wanted her to understand how it had happened. To understand is often to forgive.

I put down my pen. Then I called Jeanne again and I told her where she would find the journal.

She looked bewildered. But she listened to my instructions and after she had gone I could not resist taking my pen again.

Then I wrote right at the beginning of my journal: “This is the Song of the Siren who did not ask to be as she was. But she was so and it happened that one who accused her was right. Those who came near her were lured to their deaths. It seems right and fitting that death should overtake her in the midst of her singing.”

DAMARIS

The Tenant of Enderby Hall

I am lonely. The days seem endless. Hour after hour I lie here on my couch and I tell myself that my life is over. It never began really.

I was happy. I was on the threshold of what had seemed a great adventure. Then suddenly it was over. I saw everything I had dreamed of shattered in one revealing instant.

And then it was that this further blow was delivered.

It sometimes seems that life is not content with taking happiness from one, then decides that there is something else that can be done to make life more intolerable.

I lost the man I loved on one dark November day-and that night was stricken with a terrible illness which has made an invalid of me ever since.

Oh, I am surrounded by love. No girl could have parents who loved and cherished her more than mine do. I have been shown in a thousand ways that I am the centre of their lives. They blame themselves for what happened to me; and they are not to blame, but how I tell them without involving Carlotta?

I do not want to think of Carlotta. I cannot bear to think of Carlotta. Sometimes her image creeps into my mind and I tell myself that I hate her.

But I see her there in my mind-that almost unbelievable beauty. I used to think: No one has any right to be as beautiful as Carlotta. Everything was given to her.

It was as though the powers above who decide how we shall be had been in a very happy mood when they planned for Carlotta. She shall have everything ... everything ... they said.

And so she had. I had often seen the way in which men looked at her when she came into a room; she had only to look at them and they were at her side. I admired her so much. I was so proud that she should be my sister.

Now I understand more than I did. My mother has shown me her journal. I know about Carlotta’s romantic birth in Venice and the terrible thing that happened to my mother.

I know about that wicked man who died and who killed him and the terrible suspicions my parents had of each other. It explains everything. I understand why my father had to shoot Belle and bury her. If only I had known of what my parents had suffered I should not have gone to Belle’s grave when I saw Matt and Carlotta together.

I had been shocked, it was true, for I thought that it was not only Matt who had deceived me. It was also my kind father, who had secrets to preserve because of which he had killed an innocent animal. So I thought but it was not quite like that.

And because of my ignorance I had suffered with them.

Had I been more knowledgeable in worldly matters I might have suspected the attraction between Matt and Carlotta. It would have hurt me deeply of course but I would not have suffered that fearful shock. I would have been prepared for my discovery.

But what was the use of going over it. It was over. It was done, Matt had gone out of my life. I saw little of Carlotta-nor did I want to see her, for that was too painful. But I had loved her dear little daughter and I should have liked to know her better.

It was strange, but when that child came I felt new interest in life. Since that terrible night I had not been interested in anything at all, but the child came and when we were together I forgot my grievances against her mother. I loved the way in which she demanded to know the answers to every question that occurred to her, I loved to play games with her. “I Spy” was the favourite. I would hint at what I was looking at and she had to guess. She would ponder seriously until she found the answer and shriek with delight when she was right.

It was love at first sight between us.

One day when I was lying on my couch I heard her playing in the garden; she was shouting and chanting as she bounced a ball; then suddenly there was silence. I listened and the silence went on. I suppose it was only a minute or two but it seemed like five.