In the library Penny tried to show Diana the book, her book, but Diana blocked the way, fought with her, joyously, and won with a kiss. Downstairs, the crowd was preparing to welcome in the new year. Not a sound came from the gallery below: everyone was back in the west wing, with warmth and food and drink. There were a few dulled cries for Diana, exhortations for her to return so as not to miss the stroke of midnight, but they were ignored. Diana told Penny that they should be together, alone, for the start of the year, told her that they should brave the snow, that nobody would see them if they sneaked out. Penny protested that it was cold and dark, but Diana asked her to show more faith and pulled her along, back through the gallery and into the hall. She ensured Penny’s silence by putting a finger to her own lips and then slowly opened the lid of an oak trunk beside the door. Inside were two heavy coats, a box of matches and an oil lamp “which looked as though it belonged to a navvy.” Outside, the snow had stopped falling. It was still possible to make out the ruts from the arrival of the guests’ carriages. Music and laughter could be heard coming from the house, fading away as the two deserters followed the curve of the drive under the tall, black-painted gas-lamps which lined its outer edge. Beyond the grasp of the lamps the gardens fell quickly into darkness. Above them, the thin, bright arc of the moon played peek-a-boo amongst scudding clouds.
I shivered. At first I thought I was empathizing with Penny, but the library had grown cold, too. The sky outside was losing its light, not yet to darkness or even dusk, but enough for me to decide that it was time to head home. I would stop at the temple on the way back, and finish the few pages of the diary needed to bring me into the new year. There were other areas of the gardens to be explored, but they would wait for spring or summer, when I could come with Emily, when everything would be all right again, because time would have passed, and wounds would have healed, more purple, more yellow, just until the illness was gone, as it would be in summer. I could see the electric lights running from the house to the lake, and then out, across the ha-ha, all the way to the rise of the hill. I put the diary in my bag and walked from the dead library, down into the gallery and on, to the hall, nodding a goodbye to the man and his paper.
In the gardens the snow was falling more heavily: not faster but denser, each large flake trying to outdo the nonchalance of its neighbours, each more languorous in its descent. There was a bitterness which had not been present earlier, when the sun was higher and the clouds thinner, when the day was about arrivals, not departures.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sunday, 1st January, 1888
We came to the start of the path which leads to the temple. Diana paused and lit the lamp. There was little chance of the dim flame being seen from the house at such a distance, particularly given the festivities in which its occupants were engaged. Nevertheless, she was careful to hold it before her and shield it with her body, so nothing fell behind but a slight brightening of the snow at the edge of her shadow. Then we were on the path itself and, more quickly than I had expected, upon our temple. The snow on the steps was crisp beneath our feet but after we passed between the columns we were walking on cold, clear flags. Diana placed the lamp on the bench and then sat beside it, and I beside her.
In front of us, all was dark and noiseless, but only almost so, for we heard the sound of the wind in the trees, and the occasional shiver of smaller branches as snow fell from bough to bough. The lake was black and even, except for fleeting dashes of silver when the clouds permitted an appearance of the moon. Wherever the geese had found shelter, they were keeping their secret. I turned to face Diana, thinking she would embrace me in some fashion, but she merely took off her glove and stroked my cheek, telling me that midnight was not yet arrived, turning my expectation to anticipation. I asked how we should know when it was upon us, but she told me not to worry and assured me that we had a little time yet. She took out her pocket-book, all filled with Swinburne, and began to read. I pulled my coat tight around me, moved closer to her, and rested my head on her shoulder.
She read “Love and Sleep”. She read slowly and in a half-whisper which carried her words to me but no farther. As she approached the end of the sonnet I noticed a change in the bright patches which defined the house, otherwise concealed by snow-laden trees. Diana must have noticed it, too, for she increased her pace just a little and shifted so that we might face each other. As the final line dripped from her mouth the sky filled with a brilliant, white light. We watched a flare rise above the house, and heard the loud report of the pistol and the answering call of the awakened waterfowl. The snow shimmered on the branches by the temple, and the pillars before us cast their shadows in stark stripes over the murals and bench. Diana wished me a “Happy New Year” and kissed me as the flare sputtered and the black and white of our surroundings returned to darkness, but for the lamp’s yellow glow. I asked her if she had known that the flare would mark the arrival of midnight. Yes, of course she had: her father acquired the pistol from a naval acquaintance some months back and had spoken often of his intentions, with what she described as “the excitement of a schoolboy.”
I had started to shiver. Diana asked if we could stay for just a little while longer. Tomorrow, she said, the family would have their open house, and the place would be filled with a mixture of relatives and eligible young men. I was quite surprised to hear this: I had thought that the day’s entertainments had replaced the more usual traditions. Diana explained that the night’s celebration was also the idea of her father. The rest of the family had been unpersuaded of its merits, other than its being a welcome diversion at a difficult time of year. Thus reminded of our visit to the church on Friday morning, I placed my arm around her and, this time, gently guided her head onto my shoulder.
We sat, saying nothing, as the birds of the lake settled back to their sleep, and the guests slipped back inside the house, closing the large front door and confining the light to the hall and a few rooms of the west wing. The cold had reached Diana, too, and when we looked at each other we laughed at the blueness of our lips and the redness of our noses. She rose and took my hand in hers, pulling me gently from the bench to hold her for one last time before we returned. She whispered a line from “Anactoria” as we embraced:
“Like me shall be the shuddering calm of night.”
Back in the warmth and noise of the house the Earl greeted us with a friendly “There you are!” and inquired if we had seen the flare. Diana remarked that we had indeed, from a vantage point in the gardens, and I, standing mute in the face of this sudden return to the prosaic world, nodded my agreement. This was cause for Diana’s mother, who had been entertaining guests nearby, to come across and fuss over us. She hurried us to the fireplace to warm ourselves, worried that we might have caught a chill. Appropriately thawed, we were ushered into the billiard room to sit for Mr. Collins. Thankfully, carriages were at one o’clock and soon only the family and I remained. Lord Barbroke suggested a late breakfast at ten—to which all readily agreed—and we retired.
I awoke around six and returned to my own room whilst the rest of the house slept. I sit now, with the bed-quilt over my shoulders, writing and watching the snow fall. Outside the door I can hear footsteps as the servants begin to prepare for the day ahead.
Today began as Sundays begin, with breakfast and a short church service, to which we were taken in closed carriages due to the persistent intemperance of the weather. Diana sent down with her apologies: she was feeling unwell but would join us for luncheon on our return. I proposed that I go to her in her room to judge the severity of her illness, but my hosts insisted that she be left to sleep, and it was not my place to argue. It is my suspicion that Diana could not face another morning in the company of her brother’s ghost and, moreover, that her parents were well aware of this reason for her remaining in bed. Not knowing that Diana had already taken me into her confidence, they were keen that I did not force her to broach such a distressing subject. The Earl and his wife and son—who mus
t surely feel as Diana, must they not?—managed their emotions and, when at church, fulfilled all the duties of their position. Only once did I catch Peter stealing a glimpse over his shoulder at the dark curtains.
Diana was waiting for us when we returned, and we partook of an informal luncheon in the mural room. It was felt that since we were to spend the afternoon entertaining, with ample provision of food and drink, we ought to eat lightly. In all honesty I had then, and have now, no appetite: it has been stolen from me by the excitement of all that has occurred and by the short hours of sleep which last night afforded me. Diana announced that she felt much refreshed from her morning’s rest and was looking forward to seeing old friends and making new ones during the remainder of the day. I found something disagreeable about the easy way with which she continued normal life in the face of what had passed between us, and yet I cannot list a single action of hers to which I took umbrage. As we sat she smiled at me, and my fears, whatever their nature, were lifted. All seemed well, at least here, in this place which belongs to us.
The afternoon was entirely as I had expected: a stream of well-intentioned callers and more introductions than I care to remember. Around three, however, I managed to ask Diana if she would come with me to the library, so I could show her the Warber. I told her that I should be on an early train tomorrow and it would be a pity were we not able to share such a discovery. She said she thought that one could make an exception to the usual noblesse oblige in such circumstances, and made our excuses with her parents.
We entered the library from the door at the top of the entrance-hall stairs and I led the way, across the room to case 23. It was about an hour before sunset and already the lower corners of the room were beginning to hide themselves. In the gardens the snowflakes flirted with each other, but the library was left to the two of us.
Diana listened patiently to my description of the book, the hair and the pamphlet as I took each of them out of the box, but I caught no sign of enthusiasm. I told her that she was hurting my feelings, that this was important to me and thus ought to be important to her. In reply she said, almost inaudibly, “It is important to you and to him.” I realized I had not thought of Matthew for more than a passing moment—had I thought of him at all?—since she and I had taken our first turn around the grounds. Our sittings for the painting, which were once only footnotes to my times with the artist himself, have been transformed into mere excuses for enjoying the close warmth of my Thomasin. Mr. Taylor has waned in the waxing of Diana. Yet I have given no voice to this transformation. Diana left the library then, taking the spiral stairs, neither looking back at me nor giving me a chance to explain. I have not seen her since.
I replaced the book as quickly as possible, without any opportunity to take notes or study the pamphlet in greater detail. Downstairs, the Countess informed me that her daughter had started to feel unwell again, and was to spend the rest of the day in her rooms. I was not to worry, she said, for if the illness persisted they would call their doctor, who was a “wonderful man”. Most likely, I was told, it was the effects of the cold weather, or the excesses of the season.
Dinner was accompanied by reminiscences of Oxford. The Earl was curious about the University itself, eager to know that the buildings still stand as they have always done, that Great Tom still sounds across the rooftops, that the “Hymnus Eucharisticus” is still sung from Magdalen Tower on May Morning. I politely reminded him that I have yet to spend a May Morning in the city—which seemed to cause him genuine embarrassment—but I expressed my conviction that the traditions continue unchanged. Lady Barbroke’s interests lay with the nature of our academic work: the lectures which we attend, the organization of the college, the minutiæ of day-to-day life. Peter said hardly a word.
I knocked on Diana’s door as I came up to my room, but she did not answer. I shall not see her tonight and I leave on the early train tomorrow, before breakfast, as I promised my parents that I should accompany them to the home of some great-aunt whose name escapes me. My head is full of contradictions and I do not know how best to resolve any of them, or if they may find any resolution at all. Some minutes ago I felt faint and opened my bedroom window. I stood and let the snow brush past me, or stop and rest on my clothing, cut through my skin in its melting, give me a physical sensation to take my mind from its spinning. I lost myself in the snow; lost Matthew, lost Diana, lost Warber, lost it all in the encroachment of winter. Now the window is closed again and everything is coming back. The only thing I can do, the only thing I shall do, is sleep.
Monday, 2nd January, 1888
I was awoken this morning by one of the maids, and left a short while thereafter, catching the first train back home. Diana was doubtless still sleeping and I did not feel that I ought to wake her. I placed the Swinburne against her door so she would find it when she emerged and know that I had departed. I think she wanted me to take it, to draw the thread beyond the confines of Barbroke, but I no longer trust my judgment of her wants and desires.
Mother and Father were glad to see me, of course, and wanted news of my “time amongst the aristocracy.” I tried to affect an air of excitement but my heart was not in it. Those experiences which were of most interest to me cannot be conveyed to others, and particularly not to my parents, who were not taken in by my attempts at telling breathless stories of the great and good. In the end I excused myself as tired from my travels and in need of rest before the visiting of aunts could be undertaken. I lay on my bed with my eyes closed, waiting for Mother to open the door a fraction, peer round, and linger until she was sure I slept. Only after she had done so did I rise and move to my desk.
In the past hour I have written the opening lines of six separate letters to Diana, and one by one they have found their way into the waste-paper basket. It may prove difficult—it may yet prove impossible—to compose the substantive argument of the letter, but I do not know, as I have proceeded no further than the opening lines of greeting. No sooner has the ink begun to dry than I read what I have written and see that it is overwrought or insipid, extravagant or nondescript: anything but what is required. Indeed, I suppose I do not know what is required.
And then there is Mr. Taylor, my dear Matthew. Do I really care for him? Perhaps I am heartless to put such doubts to paper. Perhaps my heart is otherwise occupied. I wonder if he has abandoned me; but then, how could we have communicated? It is risk enough his writing to me at college, and at this time I most certainly do not possess an address to which he might send a letter without its being noticed by persons better left unaware of our correspondence.
Mother has just knocked and told me to be ready to leave in one hour from now.
Tuesday, 3rd January, 1888
Last night I retired the instant we returned, telling my parents that I was suffering from a headache. In truth, I had thought I should remain awake, restless, for much of the night, but I slept fitfully once I had extinguished the light. I dreamed I was back at Barbroke. I am unable to explain my own feelings or, indeed, to identify their character in any manner which might render them susceptible to comprehension. At times I believe Diana wishes nothing more than to be with me; at others I am quite sure she will never speak to me again. Yet I remain of the opinion that I have done nothing to wrong her. Ought I to have run from the temple, across the snow, away from the statues and murals and Diana, so that I might have been sure of retaining a friendship which I fear is in jeopardy? I wish I might talk to her, but I have failed to write with any acceptable degree of clearness, and it is still a fortnight until I shall have the opportunity to see her in person.
I have not spoken to Father about the Warber at Barbroke: such a revelation would work against two relationships which are both so awfully important to me. I should be reducing the worth of Father’s copy and the breadth of his knowledge of the work—as he would see it—whilst simultaneously diminishing the value of something precious to me, as I still hold hopes of sharing it with Diana, that it might be possessed by th
e two of us and no other.
Tuesday, 10th January, 1888
This morning a parcel arrived from Barbroke. Mother was desperately keen to know the contents and began to protest when I insisted on opening it in the privacy of my own bedroom. It was Father who prevailed upon her to allow me some life of my own now that I have attained an age at which I may attend Oxford and form new social circles. It was interesting to discern, in the words I overheard as I took my leave of them, the strange reversal of the parental roles to which I have become accustomed. I was always Father’s little girl as I grew up. It was Mother who most often and passionately expressed a desire that I exceed the limitations placed on me as a woman in modern society. Now it seems that it is Father who is ready to free me, and Mother who feels the loss of her daughter.
Inside the parcel I found the green box which had been hidden amongst the volumes in case 23 and, on opening it, the Warber, lock of hair and pamphlet, all in place. Resting on top of them was an envelope bearing my name.
All the Perverse Angels Page 19