Angels and Insects (8 page)

‘My skin pricks,’ said Matty Crompton to William, ‘at the idea of these benevolent armies.’

‘And
I
am made nervous by the idea of sorting a mountain of mixed seeds or anything else. I am reminded that I am neglecting my work—’

‘It is odd, is it not, how
sorting
so often makes a part of the impossible tasks of the prince or princesses in the tales. There are a great many frustrated lovers who are set to sorting seeds. Do you think there is a good anthropological explanation?’

‘No doubt. But I do not know it. I have always supposed those tales to be about the sagacity and usefulness of the creatures, of the ants. I may be biased by my interest in ants. Tropical ants are
not
easy to live with. I have tried it—I lived for some time in a room with an earthen floor where there were two huge mounds of earth
reared up by the Saüba ants. That was where I also found a
modus vivendi
with several nests of large brown house-wasps. They make the most ingenious houses, like inverted goblets that hang from the rafters. I flattered myself that they knew I was the owner of the house in which their houses hung—certainly they never stung me, though they did attack roaming strangers. I felt we
co-operated—
though this may have been an illusion—they were very fierce in keeping down large flies and cockroaches, which they slaughtered with terrible precision. I came to admire them for their beauty, ingenuity and heroic ferocity. I made quite a study of their work, both as builders and butchers.’

‘Our Wood Ants must seem a little tame after those wild creatures.’

‘I am very happy here. I am useful, and every one is most kind.’

‘I hope your
sorting
may be completed to everyone’s satisfaction,’ said Matty Crompton. He decided later he had imagined something knowing in her tone.

He had moments, as Spring ripened into early Summer, when he began to weary of his task of sorting. He figured it to himself, in some sense, as a labour of love, but he could see no reward at the end of it. What reward could there be? Eugenia was not for him. He was more and more relegated to a kind of between-world, a companion of the little girls, a companion and assistant for the old man. The young people went in and out constantly amongst a growing number of friends, both male and female. There was one young man, Robin Swinnerton, who could often be seen lifting Eugenia down from the back of her black mare, Dusk, his hands about her waist, his laughing face turned up to hers. Confusion coiled round William Adamson when he saw this, confusion composed of a vicarious pleasure in the imagined grip on her young muscles, a stab of blind envy, a reasonable cold voice that told him it was best if she were soon spoken for, for then he could go free.
Now
he could go free, for all the hope he had, he answered himself, but he could not listen. He traced on his own lips with one finger the perfect arch of hers, as it would be, if touched.

He was used to solitude; he had no idea how to gossip, or to listen to gossip, though he was aware, as one is aware of clouds of pollen drifting from great trees on warm days, that speculation was in the air. Then one day he was making his way along the cloister-passage to the hexagonal Studium, when he met Robin Swinnerton hurrying the other way. He was a chestnut and russet, curly young man, with a pleasant smile, which on this day stretched from ear to ear and took in William Adamson. He nearly knocked William over, and stopped to apologise, shake his hand, and break into laughter. ‘I am on a happy errand, Sir, I was preoccupied—’

‘That young man’, said Harald Alabaster, when William had entered, ‘wishes to marry my daughter. I have given permission, and he says he already knows what she will say—so you must wish me joy.’

‘I do indeed.’

‘The first fledgling out of the nest.’

William turned to look out of the window. He said, ‘The others must soon follow, in the course of things.’

‘I know. They must. I worry about Eugenia, I must confess. I feel this news is not calculated to increase
her
happiness—though perhaps I underestimate her.’

It took William what seemed like hours to make sense of this pronouncement.

‘Then it is not—not Miss Eugenia Alabaster—who is to be married?’

‘What? Oh no. I had almost said, oh no, alas. It is Rowena. It is Rowena who is to marry Mr Swinnerton.’

‘I thought Mr Swinnerton showed signs of becoming attached to Miss Eugenia.’

‘My wife too—was of that opinion—but it turns out to be
Rowena. Eugenia may not like Rowena to be married first. She was engaged herself, you know, but the young man died in a tragic accident. And since then—I do not know how it is—she has had many suitors, very many, considering the limitations of the neighbourhood—but she has not—I do not know whether she herself displays coldness—or whether—she is a
good
girl, William, she bore her grief very well, she did not go into decline, or repine, she was docile as ever—but I fear the life went out of her, to some extent, and has not come back.’

‘She is so beautiful, Sir—so very beautiful—and—and—
perfect—
that she cannot be long without finding—some worthy partner.’

‘So I believe, but her mother is concerned. I think her mother will not be best pleased if Rowena goes first—it isn’t right—but I do not see how Rowena’s happiness can or should be prevented. Indeed, it is wrong of me to burden you with my concern for Eugenia when it is to be such a happy day for Rowena that should be uppermost in our thoughts.’

‘I think your concern for Eugenia is very natural—is thoughtful, as you always are—it is not my place—I too—’ he was about to add ‘care for Eugenia’, but caution overtook him.

‘You are a good young man, and a sympathetic presence,’ said Harald Alabaster. ‘I am very glad you are staying here with us. Very. You have a good heart. That is the most important thing.’

William watched Eugenia with a new sharpness, when he saw her, searching for signs of unhappiness. She appeared to be quite as serene as ever, and he would have thought her father was mistaken, if he had not one day been witness to a curious little scene in the saddle-room. He was going quietly past there, to his workplace, when he noticed, glancing through the window, that Eugenia was in there, talking to someone he could not see from his spying place, and her manner was agitated, even tearful. She appeared to be pleading. Then he heard quick footsteps and ducked out of sight,
and Edgar Alabaster strode past him, his face set in anger, towards the house. A moment or two later Eugenia came out into the yard and stood stockstill for a moment or two before walking away rather unsteadily towards the paddock and the ha-ha. He knew, because he loved her, that she was blinded by tears, and he guessed, because he had studied her, because he loved her, that her pride would be hurt if she thought her tears had been seen. But he followed her, because he loved her, stood beside her on the grass, looking on to the pit of the ha-ha, the barrier between the house and the outside world, invisible from the yard. It was late afternoon: the poplars cast long shadows across the meadows.

‘I could not help seeing you were in distress. Can I be of help? I would do anything to help, if I can.’

‘There is nothing,’ she said dully, but without making a movement to repulse him.

He could not think what to say next. He could not reveal his knowledge of her circumstances, which did not come from herself. Nor could he say, ‘I love you: I want to comfort you because I love you,’ though his body throbbed with desire that she should turn to him and weep on his shoulder.

‘You are beautiful and good—you deserve to be happy,’ he said foolishly. ‘I cannot bear to see you weep.’

‘You are very kind, but I cannot be helped, I am beyond help.’ She stared, unseeing, at the long shadows. ‘I wish I were dead, to speak truly, I wish I were
dead,’
she said as the tears ran faster. ‘I ought to be dead,’ she added wildly. ‘I ought to be dead, as Harry is dead.’

‘I know of your tragedy, Miss Alabaster. I am very sorry. I hope you may be comforted.’

‘I don’t think you
do
know,’ said Eugenia. ‘Not at all. No one can.’

‘That must be so. You have shown great courage. Please don’t
be unhappy.’ He tried to think what to say. ‘So many people love you, you cannot be unhappy.’

‘Not really. Not truly. They think they do, but they cannot. They cannot.
I cannot be loved
, Mr Adamson, I am
not able to be loved
, it is my curse, you don’t understand.’

‘I
know
that is not true,’ he replied heatedly. ‘I know of no one more worthy to be loved, no one. You must be aware—I am not in a position—if my life were different, my position in life—in short—I would do anything for you, Miss Alabaster, you must know that. Women do know these things, I find.’

She gave a little sigh, almost of solace, he thought, and dropped her head from its marble stare across the ha-ha.

‘It is you who are good and kind,’ she said, with a new gentleness. ‘And brave, even though you don’t understand. You have been kind to everyone, even the little girls. We are lucky to have you here.’

‘And
I
would feel lucky—and honoured—if you would feel you could let me be your friend—despite the differences between us—if you could trust me a little. I don’t know what I am talking about—why
should
you trust me? I want so much to be able to do something for you. Anything at all. I own nothing in the world, as you know. So it is all folly. But please command me if I can help in the least way, ever.’

She was drying her eyes and face with a lacy handkerchief. Her eyes were slightly pink round the rims, and swollen. He found this touching and arousing. She gave a little laugh.

‘You have given the little girls a glass anthill and a glass hive. You once promised me a cloud of butterflies. That was a pretty idea.’

She held out her little hand—always gloved—and he brushed it with his lips, a butterfly-kiss that nevertheless stung his senses and beat in his veins.

He resolved that she should have her butterflies.

*   *   *

It changed his relation to her, to have seen her so unhappy. A new sense of protectiveness mingled with what had been pure worship, making him notice new things: Edgar’s brusquenesses towards her, the way in which her sisters chattered eagerly to each other about wedding plans and she moved about at a distance, either left out, or reluctant to join in, he was not sure which. He began collecting caterpillars of various kinds from various places, and enlisted Matty Crompton and the little girls, without revealing why he wanted the creatures. He gave instructions: they were always to be brought with their food plants, with whatever leaves they were found on. He borrowed rabbit hutches and dove cages, in which, as the caterpillars made themselves cocoons, he placed them to hatch. It turned out to be difficult to co-ordinate a
cloud
, but he persevered, and managed to hatch several small blues, a large collection of whites, some red admirals, tortoiseshells and fritillaries, along with one or two greenish woodland butterflies and a collection of moths, buff ermines, footmen, goat moths and other nocturnal fliers. Only when he thought his hatchings contributed as much of a
cloud
as he was likely to manage did he ask Harald for permission to release the creatures in the conservatory—‘I shall see they do not damage the plants there, there is no danger of an invasion of ravenous larvae. I promised Miss Alabaster a
cloud of butterflies
and now I think I have one.’

‘You have been very assiduous, I can see. They are certainly more beautiful in flight than on pins. She will be enchanted.’

‘I wanted to—to make her smile—and had nothing to offer—’ Harald looked at William Adamson and brought his white brows together.

‘You are concerned about Eugenia.’

‘I gave the little girls a glass hive and a glass anthill. I promised her, in a foolish moment, a cloud of butterflies. I hope you let me
give her this—ephemeral—gift. It will only live a few weeks, Sir, if that, as you know.’

Harald had a way of looking piercing and benign, as though he read thoughts. He said, ‘I imagine Eugenia will be delighted. So shall we all, we shall share her moment of magic. Magic is not a bad thing, William. Transfiguration is not a bad thing. Butterflies come out of the most unpromising crawling things.’

‘I do not hope—’

‘Say nothing. Say nothing. Your feelings are to your credit.’

The butterflies were released very early one morning, before any of the household was up. William, running downstairs at six, found a very different population from the daylight one—a host of silently hurrying, black-clad young women, carrying buckets of cinders, buckets of water, boxes of polishing tools, fistfuls of brooms and brushes and carpet beaters. They had come like a cloud of young wasps from under the roof of the house, pale-faced and blear-eyed, bobbing silently to him as he passed. Some were no more than children, hardly different from the little girls in the nursery, except that the latter were delicately swathed in petticoats, and frills, and soft festoons of muslin, and these were for the most part skinny, with close-fitting, unornamental bodices and whisking dark skirts, wearing formidably starched white caps over their hair.

The conservatory joined the library to the chapel cloisters on the far side of the chapel from Harald’s study. It was solidly built of glass and wrought-iron, with a high domed roof and a fountain on the wall side, surrounded by mossy stones with a little statue of a marble nymph holding a pitcher to the water. There were goldfish in the shallow bowl into which the water fell. The vegetation was abundant, and in places vigorous—a series of wrought-iron grilles, in the form of ivy leaves and twining branches, supported a mixture of creeping and climbing plants, making a series of half-hidden bowers,
inside which hung huge wire baskets, always full of flowering plants, brilliantly coloured, delicately scented. Palm trees stood here and there in gold-gleaming brass tubs, and the floor was tiled in shiny black marble, giving the impression, from certain angles in certain lights, of a deep dark lake with a reflecting surface.