Rev. H note: more from Mrs. Corning's diary

Another day. The day after I saw Oliver unexpectedly and suffered such an extreme reaction. I was no good for the rest of the day, lying prostrate face down on my bed, crying until I thought I should become dehydrated. And sleep brought no relief at all. I had dream after dream about him. The one I remember most vividly: I was at a fancy dress party, at a place that looked not English at all, but rather more like the etchings I have seen of the Palace at Versailles. I was in the middle of a throng of ladies when I heard that familiar voice..

Oh his voice is sweet, I don't know if I have ever written that down before, but it is the purest truth. He never claimed to be a singer and so I never expected him to sing so sweetly. It was back in the early days of the green-house construction, when things were, so briefly, sanguine and promising. I was standing in the back yard mentally mapping out where I should like to put everything, and Oliver was strolling about, trying to decide where the green-house should go relative to the main house - he felt that was as important as any other factor. So we were each engaged in a diverting endeavor when I heard him, strolling behind me, singing, in a well-tempered baritone:

Oh the ocean waves may roll,
And the stormy winds may blow,
While we poor sailors go skipping aloft
And the land lubbers lay down below, below, below
And the land lubbers lay down below.

"What is that you are singing?" I asked.
"Singing? Oh - yes, I had not been aware I was singing. It's called 'The Mermaid.'"
"You sing it so well!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, well, thank you. I'm not much of a singer."
"Oh but you are."
"Never mind that now, what do you think of lining the green-house with the path here?"
And that was the end of the singing conversation. I don't believe I ever heard him sing again. But I love the sound he makes when he speaks as much as when he sings. And there was that voice, in my dream.

But rather than look towards the voice, knowing who it was, I immediately took myself out of doors to escape him. I passed through the large glass windows and out into the verdant perfectly-tended lawn. All was quiet there and I thought I had escaped him for good. Eventually I ventured back into the house and someone called to me from the upper-story balcony and so I climbed a winding staircase. And whom should I discover at the top of the staircase but Oliver. And he smiled at me and my heart melted. Oh his face is so utterly sublime when he smiles. And his face, as I have said, is not beautiful, but it has such a unique innocence, a little boy's innocence, you cannot help but want to kiss it all over. The face of a rough but supreme angel, and you cannot imagine a wicked or an unkind thought could be possible in a being possessed of such a face, such a pure and blessed visage. A face suited to no other expression than benevolent love. And I myself did once kiss that very face.
And paradoxically, that is where innocence ends.

The thought of kissing him - I can't stop thinking about the night when I had my way with him, and the way he smelled and the way he felt, and that darling innocent face. I will surely go mad thinking about what I cannot have - and yet I cannot stop thinking about him. He crowds out all other thoughts of my mundane existence. I must do something to cure this agonizing disease.

(To be continued...)