The Song of the Siren

I lay in bed waiting for morning, and I must admit that with the coming of daylight all sorts of truths raised their heads and common sense said: It’s madness. It’s a dream-a fantasy of night.

My idea was that I should go to France myself and bring Clarissa home.

It was as though voices mocked me-my own voices! You ... an invalid... who tires quickly ... who has never been in the least adventurous ... who has always taken the quite conventional path .. .plan such an adventure? It’s incongruous. It’s worse than that. It’s madness.

All the same I could not dismiss it.

It excited me, and what was so odd was that, almost like a miracle, I could feel new strength growing in me.

Before the morning was out I was not saying to myself: It is impossible. But: How can I bring it about?

A woman travelling through France would not attract much attention, would she? I could hire horses, grooms. Paris was a big city. It was easier in big cities to hide oneself than anywhere else.

I would go to the house in Paris. I had the address. What joy it would be to see the child again!

It was after I had been with her that I had first begun to improve. She had made me want to live again. That was it, and now that there was this tremendous project lying before me I was growing more and more alive with every minute.

But how ... how ... ?

I knew if I broached the subject to my father he would think he must act. My mother would be frantic with anxiety. “We must see what we can do to bring her home,” she would say. And there would be lengthy deliberations and that would be too late. Something told me that I alone could bring Clarissa out of France.

All through the day and the following night the plan was with me. There were questions which kept coming into my mind. How? How?

The next morning I awoke fresh in spite of a restless night. I had made up my mind.

There was one person who might just understand. He had a knowledge of France. I would put my plan to him. He would laugh it to scorn ... at first. And yet if he would listen, I believed he would understand. And one thing I was certain of. If he could he would help me.

I rode over to see Jeremy Granthorn.

It was just as I had imagined. He was scornful.

“It’s madness,” he said. “You ... go to France? Even if you were in full possession of your health it would be impossible. How will you start on this venture ... tell me that?”

I said: “I will get someone to take me to France.”

“How?”

“I will hire a boat.”

“From whom?”

“That I must find out.”

“Do you realise that there is a state of war between this country and France?”

“France is not a battlefield.”

“I grant you that. But how do you think the English will be received in France?”

“I do not intend to be received. I shall make my way to Paris ... and go to this address.”

“You are talking like a child. What you suggest is wildly impossible. You betray absolute ignorance.”

He was regarding me with a certain contempt.

I said: “I had thought you might give me some advice. You know France. You have lived there. ...”

“I am giving you advice and it is: Leave this alone. Show the letter to your father.

You should have done that as soon as you received it. What happened to the man who brought you the letter?”

“He went away.”

“You should have detained him. You might have gone back with him. It would have been madness of course, but I can see you are not using your common sense in this matter.”

I said: “And I can see that you have no advice to offer me.”

“I am offering you advice. Show your parents the letter. They will say the same as I do. There is nothing to be done but wait until the war is over. Then you can send for the child.”

“How long do you think it will be before the war is over?”

He was silent.

“And,” I went on, “you would advise me to leave the child. How do I know what is happening to her?”

“She had a father of standing, did she not? He will have friends.”

“I can see you don’t understand. This is so mysterious. It must be some plague or something. My sister, who was young and strong and should have had years left to her, wrote me this letter ... the letter of a dying woman. She begs me to care for the child. You suggest I ignore that.”

“I suggest that you wait, behave reasonably, consider all the difficulties.”

“Nothing has ever been achieved by considering all the difficulties.”

“Nothing was ever achieved by rushing madly over a precipice.”

I stood up. I was quivering with rage.

I walked out of the house to where Tomtit was waiting. I felt wretched and I had relied on him more than I had realised.

As I was mounting he came out of the house.

“Wait a minute,” he called. “Come back.”

I said: “There is nothing more to be said.”

“You are too hasty. Come back, I want to talk.”

So I went back. A great relief had come over me. I looked at him; and I knew my eyes were bright with unshed tears.

He turned away as though embarrassed.

He took me into the parlour and we sat facing each other.

“It is possible,” he said.

I clasped my hands in delight.