“I am still going to test you on your Latin,” I whispered, pressing his hand firmly. “And for heaven’s sake—behave yourself!”
Shrike indeed! Mr. Thompson has since told me that it is the only truly carnivorous songbird.
June 4
It has been two days since Mrs. Stewart’s tea, and I am still filled with mortification. I know that I must apologize to Dr. McTavish, but I have lacked the courage, and I know that I cannot avoid this for many days longer, else the wound will fester and the insult grow worse.
Allan’s words keep ringing in my ears. “Margie taught me!” And my face still burns with shame.
All this has had a strange effect on me. It is as if there is some deeper, sterner voice within me that will not let me hide away and wait out the storm. Auntie A. has said that I have taken it too seriously, that it sits too heavily with me—though I know she is not pleased.
But I felt strongly that I must seek out serious reflection, and so yesterday morning I decided to saddle Flore and ride over to Clootie’s Point, taking the trail that the foresters have cut. I had to use the Mill Road, and my heart is still so broken to think what they have done! It is not as bad here at the light station as in other places, but along the Mill Road, the stumps are scattered everywhere. It is the beautiful white pines—they have killed all the tall, straight pines and left only their unwanted remains! Tad says they have cut down and gathered every stick of serviceable wood from the Peninsula—that the men who did this were mad for lumber.
Yet even though I am loathe to traverse the Mill Road, I felt that I must go—and to Clootie’s especially. I felt that I might find my courage there; not just the courage to make the apology that I know is required of me, but something truer and stronger. Something that might instruct me on the lesson I must take from these strange events.
And Clootie’s is such a stark place, perfectly suited to my meditations: there is no turf, but just great sheets of rock that stretch for miles in either direction. It is a lonely, rough spot, and I think one feels the company of the soul there. I do not think it is a place that abides deception, and it is certainly no place to seek easy comfort for a guilty conscience.
Tad once told me that Clootie means “devil,” and that this is one of the most treacherous stretches of the Bay because of the shoals that hide beneath the water and give no warning to a ship. Without a doubt, it is a grim and bleak spot, but I have always thought perhaps the devil brings the worst of temptations here, and that in seeing them, one might discern the truth and be made strong and whole again.
I am quite in earnest when I say that I seek to conduct myself differently toward Allan. I realize now that I regard him very much as a brother, as both my ward and companion, and that he does look up to me. It is true that I am only one person in a larger constellation—which includes the good influences of George, but sadly also Allan’s weak mother and his exacting, cruel stepfather. I know that to be a truly good influence, I must behave differently. I have felt such a great shame, and I wince when I think of his recent performance—the fruit of a seed that I cannot deny is of my sowing. I seem such a silly and frivolous creature in my own eyes. And no doubt in those of others.
But perhaps I should not have gone to Clootie’s. For now I feel more wretched than ever!
I tied Flore to a branch, making sure she had a patch of shade, and then walked down toward the water. I did not intend to stay for so long, but the day was clear and still—all grays. Even the sky looked at me as a dour Puritan might. I felt no disapproval from the rocks, but more a somber seriousness—as if the lessons of the soul were no light matter here. I looked around me and saw the stunted trees, the stern outcroppings, and the stubborn brush pushing up between the cracks. I listened to the waves and the wind, and I shivered, for I could not help but think that perhaps I had wandered into Tartaros and that I might never return should I stray too far. And yet I knew my way along the rocks. I knew them all to be part of the wildness, and yet strangely they are dutiful—true to a course and to a place. They did not coddle or soothe me.
Perhaps Clootie’s is a hard, dour place, but it, too, is part of this Bay and is truly one of my teachers. I think I must have just sat there for an hour, perhaps more—crouched on a large, flat rock, hugging my knees to my chest, watching the water and letting my thoughts spread out across the ledges and settle in amongst all the cracks and crevices. I cannot remember what I thought about, but I felt my resolve returning and—it is so hard to explain!—but I know I emerged with a sense of purpose, and I was no longer afraid to speak to Dr. McTavish.
I should have gone back then, but instead I wandered out onto the beach for a while, and I took off my boots to feel the water, as I always do. At length I grew hungry, and I went to Flore to get the food that I had packed in her saddlebag. I ate it, and as I felt my hunger easing, my mind became so clear and flat that it seemed to stretch out with the sheets of rock and go on endlessly. Just as I was finishing, I heard a voice behind me saying, “This is a strange place to find a young lady taking her lunch.”
I started and whirled around to find George standing behind me, a sketchbook under his arm and a canvas bag over his shoulder. I had no warning of his approach, and he had caught me unawares. I hid my bare feet beneath me and moved closer to Flore, not in the least prepared to meet anyone—least of all George. I felt flustered, and before I could catch the words, they were out of my mouth.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Stewart!”
I regretted my tone almost immediately, for I did not mean the words to sound the way they did; I said it like an accusation, as if he were an intruder trespassing on my land. Nor did I know why I addressed him so formally—
“I could ask the same of you,” he replied mildly.
He paused and we looked at each other awkwardly. Somehow I managed to get my boots on as he stood there watching me. I grew quite furious with him, but he seemed impervious to my discomfort, even amused.
“What brings you to Clootie’s?” he asked. “Such a forlorn spot.” Then he hesitated. “Allan has called you a dark-eyed junco, but even so, this is a rather isolated place, don’t you think?”
I don’t know why—perhaps it was the bidding of the rocks—but I simply told him the truth.
“I wanted the courage to apologize to Dr. McTavish, and so I came out here to find it.”
“Well, did you? Did you find it?”
“Yes,” I said. And that was all. I turned away from him.
I shortened the stirrup, thinking to sit sidesaddle until I was out of view—but still, I was not at my ease with him. I took Flore’s reins and swung myself up onto the saddle.
He watched me with some uneasiness, and before I could pull away, he took Flore’s bridle and held her.
He tried to smile and said, “Now, Marged.” He used my Christian name, as he has always done, though I had called him Mr. Stewart. “Don’t take this too hard. It is not quite so bad as you think, is it?”
“Do you really mean that?” I demanded. It was Clootie’s talking again, daring him to speak untruths in its presence.
He looked grave all of a sudden, as if discerning my real mood for the first time. “Don’t you think it was…just a bit of…Allan’s foolishness?”
“No, it was not,” I answered quickly.
I bent forward and tried to lift his hand from Flore’s bridle, but he would not let me.
“What is it that troubles Miss Brice?” he asked. I thought I heard derision in his tone.
I don’t know why I said it, but it came out of me as if in a torrent. It angered me to think of him treating me like a child, as if he thought I was to be mollified.
“You think I am a silly young girl, don’t you?” I told him. “Perhaps my life is small and unimportant in your eyes. But I have had more experience of the world than you might think. I have seen little compromises that
poison people a drop at a time, each day, as they rise and go about their work and share the day together. And I have seen something more foul—something that destroys innocence and goodness by violating a sacred trust.”
I think I was crying as I said this and furious with myself, but still I did not stop.
“I will not encourage Allan’s—thoughtlessness—because I am weak and afraid that—that I will be lonely without his company. If he must grow up and be a man, then I must help him to it through my own conduct.”
Suddenly I understood Tad and the Light, and before me I saw his tired, haggard face and his eyes, always oriented toward that beacon.
I knew it was Clootie’s speaking through me and out into my words. George stepped back, a little astonished, but still he did not release his hand from Flore.
I did not like to be held there that way, and I think I must have scowled fiercely. I am sure that the frown that soon appeared on his brow only mirrored my own. There was a pause, and I pulled my hat down to evade his eyes. He spoke his next words abruptly, almost harshly.
“Why did you leave the College? Why did you not finish your degree?”
I gasped. I was not prepared for such a question! He seemed to ask it in such an unfriendly way, as if to wound me. What gossip had he heard? Was he mocking me? I blushed with shame thinking of Miss Crabbage—and her evil insinuations. George could not think that I was guilty of them! I could not bear that George should think it true!
I drew Flore back sharply, finally forcing him to let go of her bridle. I wished to defend myself against the false imputations I read in his question! But my pride prevented me.
I rode away from him at a gallop. Once I turned back to see if he was still standing there, but I saw no one. I shivered and wondered if it had really been George—or if an apparition had been sent to tempt me with something I could not fathom.
June 6
Dr. McTavish and I are friends again. I am so relieved!
I could not go to him yesterday because Auntie Alis wanted me to accompany her to church and that took up all of the day, but I went right after breakfast this morning.
Mr. Thompson answered my knock and then removed to the back room, listening to everything, I am sure. But Dr. McTavish wouldn’t let me speak first. When I came in, he just took my two hands in his own and said in his gruff but tender way, “Now, now. We’re to be friends, aren’t we? Haven’t we always been so?” He wouldn’t let me apologize. I think he knew how full my heart was. He gave me a linen to wipe my eyes, and then he showed me his exquisite drawing of a Bohemian waxwing (Bombycilla garrulus) and whispered to me that Mr. Thompson was quite jealous of its plumage (it does have a rather full head of feathers) and that he’s had to keep it hidden from him.
I didn’t stay long, and Mr. Thompson escorted me to the gate. He kept muttering, “Splendid! Just splendid.”
I am so grateful. Dr. McTavish is a dear, dear man!
June 8
I have been true to my word. Yesterday Allan and I began our studies of the classics, and I had all my old books and worksheets down, with Dr. Latham’s funny notations all over them. Allan, of course, did not pass his Latin examination, though he did better than I expected. But forgetting how to conjugate poner was really quite inexcusable.
I have also wanted to study some of the Greek classic texts with him, and so yesterday we began to read parts of The Iliad down in front of the old boathouse, but before I knew it, we were discussing Homer, and then he wished to hear more about mythology and then we were on to the labors of Hercules. I am quite content to introduce him to the Greek works—perhaps it might be best to set our Latin grammar aside for now.
Allan has a good ear for languages. If he puts his mind to it, he can recall and repeat almost everything he has heard, often after only one lesson. After two hours or so, we walked leisurely back to the Lodge, and I told him about my correspondence with Mr. Muir. He seemed quite interested, and he told me of a former tutor of his and of his interest in natural history. I have never seen Allan so animated about any subject, and indeed I am now wondering if he is not more suited to scientific pursuits. I should be delighted if this were the case, though I have so little to offer him by way of instruction on this topic. But he was very eager to explain the classifications of all sorts of animals (becoming my instructor for once!), and I took the opportunity to echo Mr. Thompson’s point about the importance of Latin for such studies.
I am amazed at his easy memory of such voluminous detail. I think we must perhaps set aside my beloved Horace—and even Hesiod and Aeschylus for a time. I shall ask Dr. Clowes to see if he might obtain the works of Mr. Darwin by post, since Allan is interested in these things. I think it wise to follow in the steps of his interests and to nurture a sense of scholarly discipline based on his natural inclinations. The Stewarts are planning to stay through to October, so it will be well for Allan to have these occupations. Old Mr. Stewart has taken charge of his other lessons, and they are going rather dreadfully, or so Allan says. Mr. Stewart has not forbidden his lessons with me, but Allan tells me that they have advertised for a tutor. Perhaps no one will care to come such a distance. But I am not offended—I have deserved it!
June 13
It is quite late, but I must chronicle yet another of my follies! Will they ever cease?
Today, after our walk, Allan and I returned to the Lodge, and he went off in search of Susan to see if he could persuade her to “release from bondage” some of her biscuits. I paused in the hallway when I saw that the door to George’s studio was open. There was no one in the room, and the house was quiet and still. I could see his easel set up near the window, and a space had been cleared by the fireplace for a chair. I observed that he had been working on a large canvas; it seemed to be a portrait of a woman, but I could not tell of whom. My curiosity got the better of me and I slipped silently into the room, planning only to take a peek and then step back out.
Upon closer inspection, I recognized the outlines of Miss Ferguson on the canvas. He had painted in the background with rough, bold strokes and had blocked in the red fabric of the chair. Her dress, too, was painted in strong lines, and George had sketched in the outlines of a pearl necklace at her throat. He had started to detail her hair, and though the contours of her face were still unfinished, they were strangely precise—he had caught the cold, glittering gray of her eyes and the thin lines of her mouth. I wondered if she were pleased with it.
I should have left immediately, but I thought I might have a closer look at the canvas over the fireplace and determine whether or not it was my grove of trees that he had painted. I had begun to suspect that George and I had frequented some of the same nooks and crannies of Cape Prius, but without the other knowing. I had always thought of the cedar chapel as my secret, but looking at the painting, I realized that it was not. George had gone there and painted their smooth, twisting trunks and the dusky, damp shadows cast by their branches upon the forest floor. Somehow he had also painted the light in its sudden stillness. Even more remarkable, I knew the trees to be moving—gently trying to tease the light into laughter, and the light playfully refusing to move even a muscle…
I was entranced by the painting. I am quite sure that I pressed my hands together, and, holding my breath, I stood before it just as if I were in the copse and saying my prayers among the cedars. I thought it a most beautiful painting!
He must have come in without me knowing it, for I am sure that the room was empty when I entered. I do not know how long George stood there before saying in a low voice, “What are you doing here, Miss Brice?”
It was an echo of my address to him at Clootie’s Point—I recognized it immediately. It sounded so unfriendly! Yet I suppose that I did deserve it. His voice was so unexpected that it made me jump, and I looked at him, horrified—as if I had been caught in a terrible act. His eyes were so dark and burning that they seemed to acc
use me of trespassing into his private studio and—I don’t know what else!
I stepped back unthinkingly, and without intending it—truly it was an accident!—I backed up against his easel, tripping over his box of paints and brushes. Before I knew it, I had fallen, taking the easel and the painting with me onto the floor. I lay sprawled in a disastrous heap, the smell of oils and turpentine filling the air with a terrible pungency. I don’t think that I have ever been so horrified at my own clumsiness! I was sure that I had ruined Miss Ferguson’s portrait and that George would hate me for it—and be justified. In my mind, I saw the other canvases that Allan had destroyed—and myself by association. I could only think that George would believe me to be deliberately careless around his work—and the thought left me paralyzed.
It was George who lifted me off the floor, for I was not capable of any movement, so appalled was I at what I had done.
My face must have twisted as a sharp pain shot through my ankle.
“I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?” I cried. “I’ve ruined her picture! I didn’t mean to—please believe that I didn’t mean to!” My eyes were blinded with tears, so I could not read his expression.
“Damn the picture!” he growled. “Have you hurt yourself?”
There was a sound of footsteps in the hallway, and Allan and Effie came rushing into the room. Effie let out a little scream, and Allan nearly dropped his biscuits when he saw the heap behind me. He gave out a long, low whistle.
“Oh, Margie,” he said. “Now you’ve done it.”
George told him to shut up—and to run and get Dr. McTavish.
Effie took me to her room. She helped to bathe my ankle in cold water. I am to do this three times a day until the swelling has gone down. I’ve really twisted it, and it is quite painful if I place any weight on it. Uncle Gil came and carried me home, and Auntie Alis says that I am not to go outside until I am properly healed.
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