Perdita

by Hilary Scharper

  I was quite amused by all this, but soon repented because the poor woman had been quite frantic as to the whereabouts of her littlest one, and it was only with some effort that I quieted her shrieks. But it seems that I was not quick enough, for before long several women appeared banging pots and pans and asking with some urgency where was the bear. I must say that Claude showed remarkable foresight in disappearing into the bush, and it was Jeffie who was left to explain that he had ridden on a great beast that was a dog and a bear all at once.

  The women were distant to me, and I could not blame them, for I had enjoyed this little bit of mischief—though I was to regret it only minutes later! I whistled to Claude, and I heard a great creaking and crackling of dry sticks in the woods, and then I set off back up the path assuming that he was behind me in the growing darkness.

  It was a cool, clear evening, and the wind had risen so that the trees tossed around me in a stormy, surging sea. I had my back to the water and was but ten minutes or so away from the camp, when an intense shaft of light lit up my path and I turned expecting to see someone with a lantern. It was the moon appearing from behind the clouds, and it cast its full and brilliant light on the path before me. I stopped to admire it, and it was then that Captain Howarth stepped out of the woods and stood impeding my way forward.

  I gasped and froze. I thought perhaps that he had seen me earlier, though I had not discerned him, and that this was no chance encounter. He waited for a few minutes, eyeing me ominously, and there was a strange tension in the man’s form, as if he were a steel coil wound tightly and ready to spring. I looked about for Claude, but I could not see him.

  At last he said, “Good evening, Miss Brice.”

  I did not like his tone, for it seemed faintly mocking to me, but I swallowed and nodded, my heart pounding and a strange, unfamiliar fear freezing my limbs.

  “I shall walk a ways with you,” he said, and took my arm roughly.

  I mustered my wits and withdrew my arm fiercely and turned upon him a look of what I wished to be utter disdain. He laughed a low, unpleasant laugh, and then, after glancing around as if to assure himself of our isolation, he faced me and placed his hands upon my shoulders, working them slowly up to my neck. Then he put his thumbs on my throat, just below my chin, and applied a slight, almost caressing pressure. I felt the man’s raw strength in his hands, and he seemed to be intent on provoking some reaction in me. I felt that if I screamed he would strangle me on the spot.

  I became very still.

  “Yes, just stay quiet, just as you are,” he muttered, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts like an animal panting. Then, with his hands still around my neck, he moved his face close to mine, and I could feel his breath upon my face. I closed my eyes, not knowing what to do, thinking that once his hands were released from my neck, I might try to escape.

  I have no doubt of what ill he intended for me, but it was Claude who saved me. With a low growl, he leapt suddenly out of the woods and tackled Captain Howarth with all the force of his big body, knocking him down onto the path, and there he tore into his neck and shoulder with his great jaws. The man writhed beneath Claude’s huge form, but he could not lift the dog off him. I turned and ran up the path as swiftly as my legs could carry me, and then I heard Captain Howarth’s screams behind me. I was sure the dog was going to kill him, and so I called to Claude frantically. He reluctantly backed away but continued to snarl at Captain Howarth, whose face was wet and covered in dirt. He lifted his arm to his mouth and wiped blood from it, his form prostrate and breathing heavily.

  “Call him off, call him off,” he shrieked at me, and Claude crouched as if to resume his attack.

  I called Claude’s name again and again and whistled urgently. Finally he came to me. I ran all the way back to the cottage with Claude at my heels, leaving Captain Howarth bleeding in the pathway: but I made sure to turn back at the hilltop, unsure as to what to do if he were indeed dying. I saw him rise and then lean heavily against a tree stump. I did not linger, but made my way home with as much haste as I could muster.

  At least he is not dead…

  I will have to tell Tad. I see now that I must. Might he not bring harm to another? I will just bathe my eyes and tidy my hair; and I must give Claude a drink of water and clean his face for I am sure that Captain Howarth’s blood must be upon him!

  September 2

  It has rained and rained for the past two days, and the wind has been fierce. I have stayed inside and have made much progress with Dr. McTavish’s papers. They are now carefully organized, and I have gently extracted from the doctor a description of what he envisions for his book. I believe now that I can help him complete it, and I have even been so bold as to suggest an outline of chapters for the text. I believe that my training in composition will be of some assistance, for Dr. McTavish has bits and pieces of all kinds of fascinating facts and observations, but he seems to lack a sense of the overall organization of his book. I have discovered that it is not that he is untidy; indeed, he seems to know where everything is. And how he remembers what he has worked on from year to year is quite a miracle, yet he does! No, I have decided that it is more like going into a room that looks cluttered but really just reflects the sensibilities of an eccentric. I must help him make “his room” look like a book, and I believe that I can be of service to him in this respect. I suspect, too, that he likes the fact that I do not scold him for his disorder, though sometimes I grow exasperated and think longingly of the efficiency that an Auntie Alis would bring to his library.

  I am also enjoying my drawing very much. Dr. McTavish has already taught me a great deal, and he has urged me to take up sketching just to train my fingers and, as he says, to turn my thinking to visual forms. He is most pleased with my progress, and I have learned a great deal about mixing colors and the differences among all the various types of brushes and how they can be used. The work Dr. McTavish does is very different from George’s painting, for his birds are quite lifelike and he is extremely diligent as to the detailing of the plumage and color.

  I saw George today from the doctor’s window; he was standing out at the Point, looking at the waves in the rain. He seemed quite meditative, and so I watched him for a little while, wondering what he was thinking. Then, on an impulse, I took up a pencil and tried to sketch his form amidst the intermittent sheets of rain with the wind tugging at his coat. I had barely started when a figure in white, whom I took to be Miss Ferguson, joined him and seemed to entreat him to turn about and come back to the house. At first George seemed not to heed her, and then I thought that I saw him put his arm around her waist and go with her back to the Lodge.

  September 4

  This afternoon, Tad drew me aside after he had arisen. Auntie Alis looked to Mother while I made the tea, and he told me that Captain Howarth is no longer stationed in our area.

  I hardly dared to look at him, for I did not wish to show him my relief. Still, the image of Captain Howarth shrieking under Claude’s attack disturbed me, and so I asked after his injuries. Tad gave me a stern look and said that it was none of our affair, and so I did not pursue further conversation with him.

  Auntie A. asked me what had made Father’s countenance so black, and I told her everything—more than I had told Father. I cried a little as I told her, but it did me good. But then she became Auntie again and set forth all her arguments about why a woman needed a husband. I only half listened, but I did not object as I usually do, for if I am truthful, there is something in me that is drawn to the idea of a husband. If a man truly loved me, then I think I would find the grace to accept his tender care, but I could never acquiesce to any authority masquerading as protection.

  September 6

  First the rain, and now three days of the most dreadful heat with barely a respite in the evening. It has tried everyone, even those with the best of tempers, and we all seem to be at sixes and sevens with one anoth
er. Allan told me that I have been quite cross with him, and so to make it up, I announced that we would abandon our work and take a long hike up the shore.

  This hike is a bit of an annual event, for each summer we walk just a little farther than the previous year’s trek. Both of us are convinced that the shore will eventually lead us to some extraordinary site, but it just repeats itself in a seemingly endless series of points. We always pretend that we have come to the last one, only to reach it and see the same pattern appear beyond.

  I packed a hearty lunch with all of Allan’s favorite treats: Auntie’s gingerbread, jam and bread, and a thick wedge of ham. We set off well after breakfast—Tad was still asleep when I left—and we took Claude, who seems to be the only one unruffled by this hateful heat. The flies have been dreadful, and so we did not take Dewi, who is tormented so awfully by their sharp bites. Claude rolls himself in the mud by the pond, and though we will not allow him in the house because of this acquired filth, I must admit that it seems to keep him free of flies. Poor Dewi—I don’t think we could ever convince him to give up his coveted place on Mother’s bed, and so he shall just have to suffer through this torpid weather with flies and all.

  Allan and I must have walked for two hours when we stopped exhausted, both covered in perspiration but feeling so much better for our activity. Allan was soaked through, and my skirt was quite wet also, for there are several spots where one has to climb around pieces of the escarpment that jut out into the Bay in order to make one’s way to the next inlet. But the heat was such that it was not long before we were dry enough to make our picnic.

  It turned out that Allan had been sampling our lunch for quite some time—indeed, I had seen him out of the corner of my eye—and that our gingerbread supplies, in particular, were severely diminished. I pretended to be cross, but no one was fooled except Claude, who came and licked my hand with a great series of mollifying sighs and whimperings. We both laughed and laughed and then teased Claude for being such a big, foolish creature.

  Allan went for a swim while I packed up our lunch, and then, while he rested in the sun and I reclined in the shade, we watched the waves and a lovely sense of idleness came over us.

  It was then that Allan sat up and said, “Margie—there, you’re coughing again!”

  I had not noticed it, but it was true. I had almost grown accustomed to the dry, hacking cough that has assailed me since the evening I spent in the cemetery when the fog caught me unawares. Allan insisted that I move into the sunlight, and so I wrapped one of the napkins around my hat and stretched out in the sun. The warmth was undeniably healing, and I closed my eyes only to open them and find Allan eyeing me rather intently.

  “What is it, Allan?” I asked.

  “Do you know,” he said, cocking his head to one side, “you’ve not been well this summer…rather sickly in fact.”

  “What do you mean?” I sat up indignantly. I hardly liked to think of myself as weak and frail, and I deeply resented the imputation.

  “You hurt your ankle, remember, in George’s studio? And then your hand was all bandaged up for days, and now you are coughing all the time. Really, Margie, I am quite worried about you.”

  I was most taken aback, and I could not tell if Allan were joking and teasing me in his usual fashion. But I thought upon it for a moment and what he had recounted was true, though I had not attributed any special significance to my mishaps. Indeed, I am rarely without bruises or bumps and scrapes at the light station—though to be sure, it is not the same as living in a city.

  “And,” continued Allan, “now you have a great gash across your face.”

  My hand flew to my forehead. I had indeed acquired a scratch in my scuffle with Mr. Howarth, but had quite forgotten about it since it was not a serious injury by any means.

  Allan turned gloomy and sighed.

  “Allan, whatever is the matter?” I asked.

  I will not recount in detail the discussion that ensued, but we talked for over an hour and it seems that Allan is being exposed to some—I regret that it does sound judgmental but I know no other fitting word—nonsense about something called spiritualism by Miss Ferguson. Indeed I had heard of it at the college, for there was a girl whose aunt took us to a lecture by a woman who communicated with spirits. I was rather unnerved by her, and I did not like at all what she had to say, though the lady who took us was quite enthusiastic.

  Allan, it appears, is convinced that I am at some great risk, for he feels that there is a black cloud hanging over me and that I must do something to dispel it else my fate will be a dark one indeed. Allan is rather confused in his description of spiritualism, but he thinks that my “accidents” are an indication that I am not in proper connection to the world around me, and that I perhaps require some guidance from the spirit world.

  I was most alarmed by his discourse, though I showed none of my dismay. To do so would only be taken as encouragement to a boy like Allan, and so I kept my visage calm and noncommittal. I did, however, ask him how he had heard of all this, and he explained that Miss Ferguson, and her father in particular, were zealous spiritualists. In New York, they had held a gathering where a woman—a medium he called her—had tried to contact Caroline’s mother and strange things had happened. There had been rappings on the table in answer to questions, and Caroline was convinced that her mother had returned from the grave.

  I asked Allan if Miss Ferguson had told him all this—because I could not imagine her taking such an interest in a young boy—and he rather sheepishly explained that he had overheard her talking with George and Dr. McTavish. The doctor, it seems, is quite skeptical, but Allan thinks he may be convinced to try to contact Mrs. McTavish through such means.

  It was with some effort that I got Allan on to other subjects, and I assured him that I was not suffering from a series of portentous accidents, but rather was troubled only by a regular round of little mishaps, such as one might expect living where I did. He seemed doubtful, but he did not resume his talk of spiritualism.

  And now I am quite at a loss. Is George interested in such things? I can see that Dr. McTavish, in his extreme grief for his wife, might bend an ear to such talk, but I cannot imagine that George would take it seriously. Perhaps I have not thought of it enough. I do admit I know little about it, but there is something in me that resists it.

  September 10

  They have all left for Collingwood, and it could not have been a more beautiful day for their departure. They will be gone for four days, and I wish that my heart were more generous toward this excursion, but I must admit that I am more than a little resentful about my exclusion. I made nothing of it, though, for Allan, I think, felt divided in his loyalties and uneasy at the absence of an invitation for me. I am afraid that these ideas about spirits have taken root in his fertile imagination and that Miss Ferguson may be developing—perhaps—an unsought but nevertheless significant influence over his thoughts. He is still ever with Tad and Uncle Gil, though, and I take great comfort in this, for I cannot think of better company for a young, impressionable boy.

  September 11

  Yet again I must turn to this diary to discover my true thoughts—for this has been a strange day. I don’t know why, but I think I am pleased with it, though I sense that he might have had something further that he wished to say to me.

  I awoke this morning fretful. I do think the pleasure party to Collingwood irked me more than I liked to acknowledge, and I suffered from a peculiar depression. As I brushed my hair before the glass, I grew so dissatisfied with my appearance that I scowled at myself.

  I don’t know why, but I could not stand the thought of remaining at home, and so I resolved to go out riding for the whole day and return after supper. I announced this to Auntie, who eyed me sternly but was wise enough not to gainsay me. Perhaps she was not unrelieved to have me gone for a few hours, for I do think I have tried her patience these past t
wo days.

  I made sure Uncle Gil had no need for Flore and then saddled her up, packing my lunch and paper and some pencils Dr. McTavish had given me. It is not the first time I have disappeared for a stretch of hours in this way, but Uncle Gil instructed me to take along Claude, and I knew by his tone that there was to be no contradiction.

  Claude is quite an agile creature despite his massive size, and with his long legs, he is able to keep pace with Flore for a good distance. So we bore away, following the old Mill Road and then striking off into the bush for a short space, finally coming to a path that I had never seen before. Its aspect was rugged, and Flore shied away from it, for the roots of the cedars had crisscrossed its surface and they looked quite like snakes. I got down, took her reins, and then the three of us proceeded forward, going deeper into the woods and following the path without knowing where we were going.

  To be sure I was not truly lost, but I felt just a little lost, and to my surprise the sensation this produced in me was one of tranquillity. The temperature was cool, and the earth smelt fresh with fermenting needles. I breathed in the verdant perfume of the cedars, and I felt myself growing calm and quiet. With each step I took, I felt my dissatisfaction and restiveness diminish, and I was no longer plagued by that awful sensation of looking at myself in the mirror, disliking what I saw, and then hating the mirror for its silent acquiescence.

  I do not know how, but the forest took away all of my ill-feelings, and I followed the trail with a deep, abiding serenity, though I did not know where I was going, and yet I trusted it and took a secret delight in its quiet mystery. I felt as if I walked in a dream, yet I was aware that I was dreaming, and so I knew the dream was fleeting.