Perdita

by Hilary Scharper

  We came to a clearing, and the forest broke suddenly, for the Bay showed itself not thirty paces away. I was about to step forward onto the uneven sheets of rock when Claude growled low in his throat as he does when he detects a stranger’s presence. I hushed him and held him by the collar, but his ears pricked up and his tail began to wag. I peered through a spray of branches and saw George precariously perched on a ledge and standing before his easel. I drew back startled. I had thought he had left with all the others for Collingwood, but here he was before me! I doubted my eyes, and so I took another look. It was indeed George, and from my hidden bower, I watched him, noting his expression and movements almost as a bird might be studied unawares. So intrigued was I that I inadvertently loosened my grip upon Claude, and before I could stop him, he had bounded, forward barking joyously and interrupting George in his work.

  I stayed back, embarrassed at intruding upon his privacy and foolishly hoping that George might send Claude away and simply resume his work.

  “Where’s your mistress?” I heard him say in response to Claude’s animated communications, and then the silly creature came leaping back to me, giving away my hiding spot without a second’s hesitation. Indeed, Claude looked as if he expected some reward for being so clever in finding George for me!

  I came forward tentatively and waved as if to indicate that we were just passing by. It must have looked a little ridiculous, as it was quite a secluded spot, and if anything, George must have suspected that I had followed him to it. I was positively mortified at the thought, and so I held back awkwardly. But he smiled so broadly and beckoned me forward. I tied Flore to a tree and then stepped out onto the rock, the bright sunlight blinding me for a moment.

  “Marged,” George exclaimed. “You’ve come to my rescue. I’ve forgotten my lunch, and I’m famished! Do you have a few morsels of food you could spare a starving artist?”

  I could not help smiling. His tone was friendly, and he did not seem at all displeased to see me. I was suddenly glad that I had taken so much trouble that morning with my provisions, and I ran back to get them. George folded up his easel and tucked his canvas and box of paints carefully behind an outcropping.

  I felt my old shyness of him descend upon me, but he seemed not to notice and chatted quite gaily about his good fortune and the prodigious contents of what he called my equestrian pantry. He seemed like a man so much in his element, so much at ease out on the rocks and amidst the wind and water. It was as if he were in his own castle surrounded by familiar things and confident in his ownership of them.

  I so liked to see him thus, and it must have seemed as if I were staring, but I finally found my tongue and told him how we had discovered the path and of my desire for a day of quiet meandering in the woods. I dared not ask him about why he had not joined the party to Collingwood, though my curiosity was strong.

  We talked much on idle matters—I refused to eat until he was settled with a piece of bread and a slice of cheese, and then he said he would not take a bite until I prepared my repast. So I cut myself some cheese with his pocketknife, and he asked me about the birds I had seen in the woods, and we talked of the dearth of holiday boaters in the Basin this year. His brow darkened only once, when I mentioned the fishermen’s camp, but he quickly moved on to another topic. I think he did this to put me at my ease, and before long I felt quite comfortable, though we were sitting on rough rocks and the wind kept blowing my hair into my eyes.

  I asked him about his canvas, and he told me it was a painting of the two buoys that flanked the entrance to the Basin, and that he had come out to this location because he wished to paint them against a rougher backdrop of water. I remembered what Allan had told me and asked him if this were the painting he was going to call Good and Evil. He laughed and said that he gathered Allan had been spying on him. Then he turned suddenly serious and asked me what I thought of the title.

  I was quiet for a moment, for to be truthful, I had not liked it, and yet I did not know why.

  “Well,” I began, “one buoy is for starboard and the other is for port. I do not see how one can be good and the other evil, for both are guides and the one is necessary to the other.”

  “Precisely,” said George. “But do you not think that good and evil have meaning for us only when they are in tension—when they are together, the one contingent upon the other?”

  I nodded, for I understood what he meant. After a few seconds, I turned to him and said, “But do you not think that we can—that man has the capacity to truly discern the one from the other? If you are right, then all that we can hope for is passage between them and nothing else.”

  He looked at me curiously, and then he asked me the most peculiar question.

  “Which are you, then, Marged, starboard or port?” His eyes were looking intently into mine, and I could see the golden flecks shimmering in them.

  I was silent again and sat looking out over the water, struggling to find the right words. Then I got up, and dusting off my skirt, I answered him.

  “I think that I am neither, for I am more inclined to the waves that move around and through the buoys. The buoys are tied and pull constantly at their leashes. They are captive to man’s desires; they are his tools of navigation. I could only find but a passing reference in them, not a true course. For that, I would head for the open sea. Isn’t that what one really wishes for when one is sailing? It is the open water that is the best part of being on a boat; when the wind takes you where you are going, and for a moment it seems as if the boat and the wind are one and the same. That’s the true course.”

  I do not know what possessed me to say such things to him, but in my way I think it was a gesture of my friendship, for I had answered his question with my real thoughts and had not twisted them in deference to any polite convention.

  He did not answer, but he held my gaze for a few seconds, saying nothing but looking at me quite thoughtfully.

  “Then where are good and evil?” he asked.

  “Why, both are in ourselves,” I exclaimed, bending over to gather up the remaining food.

  He placed his hand on my arm, arresting my movement.

  “You know,” he said slowly, “Dr. McTavish thinks that you are quite…that you are a girl of great intelligence.”

  I flushed and moved away, though I was pleased to hear this.

  I think he might have wished to say more to me, but his face grew closed, as if the image of someone or something passed before his eyes, and he withdrew. I took his hand and gently pried open his fingers and placed two of Auntie’s ginger cookies in his palm, then closed his fingers around them one by one.

  Then I smiled at him and wished him a good afternoon and whistled for Claude.

  I am not at all sure what to make of this encounter, except that I feel it was a lovely, lovely day. It is as if a small ball of fire is alight in my heart, and sometimes I am aglow with happiness. Yet in the next instance, I feel a terrible ache and I grow afraid.

  September 14

  It has been a wild and windy day, and Dr. McTavish said that there would be no netting of birds today, for these gusts might bring them injury. Sometimes I cannot fathom how the trees withstand the wind, as they seem to bend right over and the wind shakes them so furiously. Perhaps it is a game between the two of them, a contest of wills and strength. I do not sense that the wind is patronizing these trees, but is in true earnest as it seizes them anew with fresh gusts and unrelenting power.

  Allan has told me all about the trip to Collingwood and seems a bit disappointed that the activities were dominated by the wishes of the adults. He brought me back a stick of peppermint, and I took this to be a gesture of great regard, for I am sure that Allan would not forgo a sweet without great sacrifice!

  Mr. Ferguson—Caroline’s father—has come to the Lodge for a few days, and I met him yesterday morning as I walked back from the Point. Though in hi
s sixties, I should think, he is still quite a handsome man, with thick silver hair and a well-groomed beard. His manners are most gracious, and he kindly acknowledged that he had heard of me from Allan who has told him that I am “jolly” and quite “sporting.” For some reason, I did not mind that he should tease me in so gentle a fashion though we have not met before, and I smiled thinking of Allan’s description of me.

  I saw him for a second time in the afternoon, for Mrs. Stewart invited Dr. McTavish and myself for tea—and Mr. Thompson of course. Miss Ferguson is attentive to her father, though I perceive a coldness between them, and he talked much of his other daughter, Ruth, who is, I gather, an accomplished musician.

  Miss Ferguson barely acknowledged me when I entered the drawing room and seemed quite preoccupied. George was there, too, and I tried to catch his eye but soon gave up, as he took no notice of me, and then he was absent from the room when I took my departure.

  I found the conversation stilted and uncomfortable, and Miss Ferguson kept directing it back to a discussion of George’s art show in New York. She spoke as if it were a confirmed event, and as George did not contradict her—though he was strangely silent on the matter—I assumed it to be true.

  I took my leave soon after for I did not wish to prolong my stay among such uncomfortable company: everyone appeared so constrained and Mr. Thompson spilled his tea, twice, and knocked over a small plate of cakes. To my surprise Miss Ferguson accompanied me to the door, and as I thanked her for the tea, she became suddenly animated and, grasping my arm, she said how pleased we must all be for George, for this was to be the beginning of his career as a great artist. Her eyes blazed with such strange lights, and she said that they were to be very busy in the next few weeks making arrangements and that she hoped that nothing would interfere with these preparations.

  I gazed at her silently, wondering at her. For my part, hers was an unsolicited volubility. I discerned that they were to leave shortly—the Fergusons and Stewarts, and of course George.

  I could feel her fingernails pressing disagreeably through the fabric of my sleeve, and I gently but firmly removed her hand from my arm. She seemed taken aback, and she surveyed my face as if to read its reaction, though I kept my features impassive. I thought I saw in her manner a strange…desperation! And then I felt a sudden pity for her. Perhaps I conveyed some of this in my face, for she stepped away haughtily and eyed me with what struck me as a look of sheer poison.

  Well, I, too, have had my share of winds today that seem to test my mettle. To be sure I have stood my ground, but I must observe my trees more closely, for they seem to retain their equanimity better under such sieges and I—I seem to have lost a good deal of mine!

  September 16

  I am extremely busy these days—trying to get all the doctor’s papers in order before he leaves. I am so tired at night that once or twice I have fallen asleep without fully undressing.

  George came over to Dr. McTavish’s today, and they were closeted in the library for quite a time. I thought he might stop to speak with me, but he left without a word, though I know he was aware I was in the study at the drawing board. Perhaps he is thinking of all his preparations. I am saddened that they are leaving in just a few weeks.

  September 25

  I can no longer mistake George’s avoidance of me. I have no right to expect any particular attention, but his behavior is so queerly distant, and certainly he seems to evade any exchange with me beyond a mere greeting. And these are so constrained. He will not even look me in the eyes, and I am puzzled and not a little hurt by all of this.

  September 27

  I now avoid going near the Stewart’s Lodge altogether, for it gives me a strange depression to know that George eschews my presence—or that it gives him some displeasure for reasons that are unknown to me. Perhaps I offended him when I spoke of his painting, but truly he gave no indication of it at the time.

  September 29

  My cough has grown more troublesome, and Dr. McTavish walked home with me and instructed Auntie A. to put me to bed. He spent a long time in the kitchen with her, supervising the brewing of a tea that he has had sent up to me, and I am to drink it three times a day.

  Allan came, and he kept me amused with his caricatures of the fishermen while I sat in the window, bundled up as if it were the deep of December though it is but a few days from the beginning of October. There is already a tinge of winter in the air, and I felt quite drowsy as I watched the leaves drift gracefully to the ground. Such vivid costumes of red and orange for such a short flight! Even nature has her vanities…

  October 1

  Dr. McTavish’s tea is quite foul-tasting, but I have been drinking it faithfully, though it seems to do me little good. I have only a meager appetite for food, and a strange languor possesses me. Each movement costs me such great exertion, and my chest feels as if it is burning all the time. Dr. Clowes has been to see me and says that I have a cold and that I must rest and only rest. Auntie A. says Mother misses me, and so we have devised a little scheme whereby Claude is our messenger, and I attach little notes to his collar, and he brings them to her room. Tad reads them to her—they are not lengthy—but even writing these seems to tire me so.

  October 3

  I awoke feeling better today, and so I rose and convinced Auntie to let me sit by the stove in the kitchen. I grow lonely in my room, and so I was quite content to watch her ministrations for supper.

  I learned that Dr. McTavish has come practically every day to inquire after me and has scrupulously supervised Auntie A.’s production of that awful tea. The tears came to my eyes thinking of his kind attention, and I realized then how fond I have grown of him. How greatly do I miss his company and the stimulation of his knowledge and instruction!

  Allan has been a bit of beast. He insists on relating how Miss Ferguson’s intimacy with George is advancing—but it is all through suggestion and insinuation. Indeed he tortures me with his allusions to them, and yet I cannot tell him to cease his chatterings, for in truth, they have nothing to do with me. Auntie sent him away today, and I think it is the first time I have ever heard her speak harshly to him.

  October 6

  I am afraid that Auntie has offended Allan—for he has not been here. Now I am so remorseful, for what if I should lose his company!

  October 8

  Dr. Clowes has forbidden me to leave my bed, and I am now taking a medicine that leaves me drowsy and disoriented. The wind shrieks so and will wake me up…I am so very tired all the time.

  October 15

  I am much better today. Allan came to visit me, and I was so pleased to see him. I insisted on leaving my bed, though Auntie A. begged me not to, and went to my chair by the window. I was shocked to see how bare the trees are.

  Allan brought his regards from his mother and from Effie (who would have visited, he said, except that she fears contagion). He did not mention George at all, and I thought it hard that George would not even send his regards.

  And then a strange thought crossed my mind.

  “Allan,” I said. “Does George know that I am ill?”

  He fidgeted awfully and would not look at me.

  “He is going away soon, isn’t he?”

  Allan scowled and kicked at the rug.

  “You are getting better, aren’t you?” he demanded. He said it as a small child might, asserting his will despite adverse indications.

  “Of course.” I meant to reassure him, but a fit of coughing overcame me.

  And then Allan was gone—as if the wind had taken him.

  October 16

  George came to visit me this morning, and I must admit I was glad to see him. I was feeling poorly, for I have been hot and fretful, and it is only now that I hear Tad coming to get Uncle Gilbert for his turn at the watch that I feel my fever subsiding a little.

  How is it that around George
I seem to think better—that I am not afraid to face my thoughts?

  This morning I was awakened by the sound of Auntie Alis speaking to George downstairs and then their footsteps softly coming up toward me from the front stairs.

  “She is not to be moved,” Auntie was saying. “Dr. Clowes says that we are to get him if she worsens.”

  I grew agitated at the thought of seeing George, and I could feel my face growing hot and flushed. What should I say to him? I thought of his imminent departure and Caroline and her father, and yet, in all honesty, I was not happy for him.

  George entered my room, and he held his hat awkwardly, as if to indicate his reluctance to intrude upon my sickroom and signal the brevity of his visit. He paused and looked to me from the doorway, and then, in a startled fashion, he strode over to my bedside. His eyes searched my face with no small degree of dismay, and I shrank a little under his inspection. He turned and flashed an angry expression toward Auntie.

  He put his hat down upon my desk and pulled a chair up close to me, and then he took my hand with lines of worry creasing his forehead.

  “Marged!” he said softly. He held my hand gently between his own, and they felt so cool and pleasant to me. “Marged—I did not know you were this ill!”

  I said nothing but looked into his eyes and my heart was suddenly filled with a deep and overwhelming sorrow. A great and ponderous unhappiness pervaded me, and it seemed as if I were already dead and gone and that I looked out at him as if from my grave. No doubt it was my fever distorting all that I felt.

  “Marged! Will you not speak to me?”

  My eyes started to water. I felt it was so stupid and childish of me, but I knew my fever to be returning and I could not help it.

  “George—Allan says that you will be selling all your paintings at a show in New York, and I am so afraid…”