Perdita

by Hilary Scharper

  I find Dr. McTavish a little cryptic about this; no doubt he intends it. Is he suggesting to me that I might love the doctor but not the man? Yet now I know the explanation for Dr. Reid’s strange deportment toward Emily Stone—that mixture of admiration and dissatisfaction that has baffled me from the beginning.

  April 3

  I have had a letter from Tad, and he will attempt to meet us at the train station; he says that the ice has mostly receded, for it has been unseasonably warm, and so we should expect a smooth journey to the Cape as long as the weather holds. I am to tell this to Mother to calm any fears she may have, and he has given me no end of instructions as to her comfort for the train. Indeed, his letter is one long series of underscores in relation to these directions! Dear, dear man—how I long to see my Tad!

  April 4

  Mother was quite agitated today, and it was such a struggle to settle her. Dr. Reid said that Grandpere and Aunt Louise’s leave-taking has taxed her and that it would be best if I left her to rest quietly for a day or two.

  I am so very tired from packing, though Aunt Louise has been remarkable. They leave tomorrow.

  April 5

  Aunt Louise and Grandpere are gone; the house seems so quiet without them! Dr. McT. has had me running about, doing all kinds of errands, so much so that I have not had time to dwell upon their departure. He says that he has a surprise for me tomorrow and has commanded me not to stay up late writing in my diary, but to go to bed and get a good night’s rest. Edgar has relented and granted me five minutes for writing—but now his black eyes are sparkling and must be telling me that my time is up.

  April 6

  I have seen the Lake—this was my surprise, for Dr. McTavish has known of my great desire to see it. Yet it was not as I expected it to be, for the roads were poorly cleared and we had to pick our way through seemingly endless yards filled with lumber and all manner of warehouses. I suppose it was because I asked if we might follow Spadina to its terminus—though Dr. McT. said that there were other more picturesque routes and vantages that we might have taken. Yet I was insistent to follow Spadina; I think because I have so often seen the Lake from my copse of trees, and I had my heart set upon following the great, long road to the water’s edge. But it was so ugly! As we came closer and closer to the shore, the buildings became rough-looking, and the yards were full of mud and debris. It reminded me of the dockyards at Owen Sound, and I almost had no desire to leave our carriage, for there was a thick fog adding to my impression of its filth and despoliation, and the water lay still and very silent.

  But that was not the worst of it!

  Dr. Reid joined us at the last minute, and so he made us a foursome along with Allan, Dr. McT., and myself. He was very solicitous in handing me into the carriage and in arranging the blankets about me, and for my part, I smiled as cheerily as I could, for I did not wish him to think that I held any ill feelings or thoughts in regard to him. His mood lightened in turn, and Dr. McTavish soon had us all laughing at his ridiculous and, I may add, implausible stories. He told us a long and colorful yarn about being stranded on a boat in the Arctic for days and days so that his eyelids froze and he could not sleep—though none of us believed a word of it, except perhaps Allan.

  I suppose I must have grown quieter as we neared the Lake and my face disclosed its dismay, for Dr. McT. remarked that he had predicted my disappointment and warned me again that our passage along this route would only grow more unsightly as we neared the Lake. At length Spadina ended, and we were forced to follow Brock Street to the water’s edge. The mud was thick and gruesome, and poor Guy and Fawkes struggled in their harnesses and strained to pull the carriage forward. We were eventually compelled to turn our course toward a pier that Dr. McT. said was named Queen’s Wharf.

  I could see gray patches of water through the fog; all around us were men, busy with hoisting crates into heavy nets and then pulling them upward by means of pulleys. Many of them stopped to stare at us as we stepped out upon the dirty planks that formed a kind of boardwalk. Dr. McT. stayed to talk with one of the foremen, and so Allan, Dr. Reid, and I walked out toward the end of the pier, passing smaller boats and great piles of empty crates and rotting wood.

  Toward the end of the pier, we stopped and were able to look out across the Great Lake, but it was still and silent, as if wounded and wary of our approach. I was disheartened and therefore eager to return, and so we began our walk back—Allan in the lead, quite cheerfully interested in all the bustle around him. Dr. Reid stayed with me, and we did not speak, though the silence between us was not an uncompanionable one. The fog grew thicker, and soon we lost sight of Allan, and I became worried that he might stumble and injure himself. I asked Dr. Reid if we should make haste to find him. He placed me in a small enclosure behind a stack of crates and told me to wait for him, promising to come back in a few minutes if he were not successful.

  I stood there alone, watching the fog drift in, sometimes lifting so that I could see the men moving about, and I heard several of them swear and curse it. I was concealed behind a makeshift wall of crates and skids, but to my right, not ten yards away, a group of men were deep in conversation. They were not dressed like dock men, but seemed to be of a military aspect, and I grew a little curious as to who they were and what business made their conversation so animated. I stepped out a little to take a closer look at them, and just then a heavy blanket of fog enveloped us, not unlike a great avalanche of snow. I heard the men exclaim at its density, and then the fog began to move about them in an uncanny fashion.

  At first it dissipated slightly, disclosing some of their heads, and these heads continued to converse atop bodies that remained hidden in the fog, so that they seemed to waft upon the air. Then, while these heads hovered, the fog would stir again and yet another man’s shoulders or legs would appear, and so their body parts seemed all to be floating, and no man had a single form. I was rather intrigued by this effect, and I again stepped forward to observe it, but stopped when I felt rather than saw that one of the men in their grouping had come closer to me. I drew up the collar of my coat, suddenly feeling a sense of danger. I stared out into the fog, trying to discern the man’s movements, and saw only the upper part of a man moving closer to me—a man with one of his arms in a sling. The partial form stopped, and the mist stirred slowly about him until I could see the other arm, both his legs, and a lower portion of his face. I felt as if in a strange dream—and then, without warning, the fog drew back from his face and Captain Howarth appeared not twenty paces away from me, his black eyes staring intently at me and a frightful scowl upon his face.

  I gasped, horror-struck at the unexpected sight of him!

  He said nothing but continued to stare ominously at me. I could see a deep and nasty scar across one side of his face. But for this, he looked the same.

  I was paralyzed with fear and stood rooted to the ground, barely able to breathe, so frightened was I. The fog had conjured him up so suddenly, and I seemed to feel his hands about my throat once again, and felt myself powerless in his grip.

  He moved slowly toward me with an evil smile on his lips but—oh, I must bless my guardian angel!—just then Dr. Reid returned, and though he did not immediately see me, he called out my name with some urgency. Captain Howarth turned to eye him and then the two men stopped—with perhaps thirty or so paces between them—each one facing the other, while I stood almost equidistant from both. Great waves of fog, white and swirling, drifted between the two men as if moved by some unseen current.

  They looked intently at each other across the boardwalk without speaking for some seconds. I felt my fear ebbing from me, and I do not know how it came to me—perhaps it was the strange effect of the fog—but George’s painting of the buoys seemed to float before me, and in my mind’s eye the two men stood to each other as if they had become the markers for starboard and port.

  I knew Captain Howarth to be a man most
certainly of an evil cast—but it was Dr. Reid whom the fog made me see with better clarity. I saw him as one of George’s buoys, standing sentinel in the gloomy vapor—and it came to me that though his moorings have been tested by capricious waters, yet I knew him to be good, so very good a man!

  I ran to him and clung to him, as if to save myself from the evil of the other man. Captain Howarth glowered silently at us both, and then he faded away into the fog, and I shivered in Dr. Reid’s arms.

  I told Dr. Reid after dinner why I had been so frightened; we were sitting alone by the fire, and Dr. McTavish was off in the library for a few moments. Dr. Reid looked very grim and said that it had been wrong of him to leave me there by myself, and though I protested that such was not the case, still he remained somber and thoughtful.

  He had taken my hand while I was speaking, and I had felt his hold tightening as I spoke. I thought that he might be unaware of what he was doing, but even after I had finished, he did not relinquish my hand, and when Dr. McT. returned, he still had it in his own.

  I got up abruptly—a little flustered to be found with him thus—but he only shifted his hand to my waist and said to McT., “Marged has been telling me of this Captain Howarth.”

  The two men looked at each other across the room, and I sensed that some unspoken words were being exchanged between them. I excused myself, thanking Dr. McT. for arranging the excursion, but saying that I found myself fatigued after the day’s adventures.

  And now that I am alone and readying myself for bed, I am thinking of George’s painting again—of the two buoys. Yet I do not think that he included it in his show. I keep trying to remember if I had seen it among those pictures exhibited—but I am almost sure that it was not. Perhaps he has not finished it.

  April 7

  I do not know what to make of George! Should I feel offended, or have I become too sensitive after Dr. Stone’s attack upon my deportment? Do I attribute thoughts and motivations to him that are not there?

  Yet I know that I did not seek him out, nor did I plot to hold any secret conference with him.

  When I came back from the hospital this afternoon, the house was quiet, and upon my inquiry, Peter indicated that Dr. McT. was in the library. I made my way there expecting to find him behind his untidy desk and amidst his even more untidy papers. The door was open, and I paused before entering, hearing movement within and assuming that it was he. I looked past the door and saw George—alone and sitting in the doctor’s chair next to a brisk fire. He looked rather pensive, and there was a decanter of Dr. McT.’s brandy on the table at his elbow and a glassful of the substance in his hand. I hesitated, for he seemed to be staring moodily at the carpet in front of him and I was reluctant to disturb him. I was about to beat a silent retreat when he looked up and saw me backing quietly away. Instantly he was upon his feet.

  “Marged!” he exclaimed. “Is that you, or have I only conjured you up from out of my thoughts?” He rubbed one of his hands across his face and grimaced, as if fighting down a powerful and yet inescapable emotion.

  “George,” I said as calmly as I could, for my heart was beating so. “It is I, Marged. I do not wish to disturb you…”

  He beckoned for me to come in with a rough motion and then waited behind his chair, indicating that I should take it. I did so with some reluctance, for I felt unsure of him, or at least of which parts of him might still be just George and which under the influence of Dr. McTavish’s brandy. I sat there quite primly, my back very straight and my face no doubt betraying my anxiety, for he turned to me and his features seemed to soften at the sight of my discomfort.

  He looked at me pointedly for several moments, as if turning something over in his mind.

  “Marged,” he said finally, “I’ve got a beastly decision to make.”

  Suddenly I feared that something had gone wrong with his show, and strange emotions swept over me—both of relief and great anxiety. My voice trembling, I asked him, “It is not the reviews, is it, George? Did not the critics praise your work?”

  He smiled ruefully and shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “They liked my paintings well enough. The reviews have been good—tolerably good. Good enough…” He paused. “Good enough for me to be introduced to New York society.” He grimaced again and took a deep gulp of the brandy.

  My heart seemed to stop. I knew it was Caroline’s father of whom he was speaking, and of course, also Caroline.

  I felt myself sinking as if into a deep hole, yet somehow I whispered, “Congratulations, George. I suppose this is what you have always wanted.”

  “Is it?” he asked me almost savagely, and then he threw his glass angrily into the fire.

  The crash of it breaking startled me, and in a second I lost all of my composure. I cried out, resenting that he should keep me there in thralldom to his ill temper and to the violence of his own emotions. I covered my face and began to sob. I was so ashamed of myself! But I could do nothing to assuage the sense of desolation that came over me, and like a child, I gave in to my despair. Then he was at my feet, gently trying to pull my hands away from my face and begging me not to cry. I barely heeded him, for I felt as if my very soul was expiring in that moment. All that I could think was that he was going away and that it would be forever this time.

  “Marged.” He said my name as if pleading with me. “Would you come away with me—to Florence perhaps? Or we could go to Paris—or Rome. Then I wouldn’t give a damn what they say.”

  I looked up at him in astonishment. “George,” I said, arresting the flow of his words. “What is it that you are asking of me?” He drew back, and I saw a flush suffuse his face. I let out a small exclamation of dismay for I thought—

  “No, Marged,” he said. “Do not mistake me—” but he left his sentence unfinished. Then he walked to the chair opposite mine and sat down, pressing his hands to his temples and leaning forward onto his elbows. I was at such a loss; he seemed so agitated that it quite distressed me to see him in such a state. I rose and went over to him, and then I placed my hand timidly on his shoulder.

  “George,” I whispered, “I wish that your heart weren’t so twisted up inside you! Does it not offer you counsel?” He took my hand and pressed it to his lips as if to prevent himself from speech. I do not know how long I stood there next to him with my hand thus, but I felt a soft tranquillity steal over me, and I was loath to move. It was George who finally stirred and then got up. He turned away from me, asking me somewhat awkwardly to forgive him, and then muttering that he was not quite himself and that I shouldn’t pay any heed to what he had said. I waited silently for a few seconds, and we both could hear the wind howling down the chimney and the soft humming of the embers below.

  At last Dr. McTavish came in and broke the silence. He was frowning at George and pressed me to leave them and ready myself for dinner. George bid me good evening in a husky voice, and I sensed that he would not be joining us for supper.

  I could barely speak—what words had I to say to him? I turned and left him standing with his back to me. I do not think that I shall ever forget that image of him. I still see it before me now; even as my eyes fill with tears, I see it still.

  April 9

  I miss Aunt Louise so terribly—and am more than ever grateful for her assistance in helping me pack up our belongings. And yet there is so much left to do! Dr. McT. is a dreadful responsibility—he will even unpack the boxes that I have readied. I am sure now that Mr. Thompson must have been a saint to undertake all these preparations, for I am almost at my wit’s end.

  And George—will I see him again before we go? The Stewarts, I know, are coming to the Lodge toward the beginning of May, but I do not know if he will be among their company. Surely he will come to see me before I leave!

  April 10

  Dr. Reid has reassured me that I have acted under some great strain and a depression of spirits, but I must admit
that I did not tell him everything.

  Very late last night, I felt an inexplicable and urgent desire to get outside. I woke up hot and fretful, my chest constricted as if I could not breathe, and though I rose and lit a candle, still I could not shake my unease.

  And then, seemingly acting on impulse, I wrapped myself up in my green shawl and descended the stairs. The house was dark and silent, but still I managed to find my boots in the vestibule, and I drew out my cloak from the front closet. I do not know why, but I felt strongly impelled to go outside. I opened the front door carefully and left it slightly ajar; the cold instantly penetrated my wrappings, but still I did not yield to mental arguments urging me to return to my bed. I stepped out onto the pathway and into a sheer and utter darkness—there was a strange surfeit of some forceful emotion moving through me that I could not for the world explain, and yet I felt it so powerfully drawing me out into the frigid night air and toward my copse of trees at the far end of the doctor’s property, near the edge of the old Lake. I thought I heard Dr. Reid’s disapproving voice, informing me once again that of course one might expect trees to be in a garden, but I did not heed him.

  I followed the path toward the gate and then pushed on through it. The temperature was so cold it hurt my throat to breathe, and I could feel the wind pushing against my back, driving me toward the ledge and the tall forms of the pines. I stopped before them and looked up to see the trees in such a terrible tumult—twisting and turning in the wind, bending and groaning as if they might break. I felt as if I were in some horrible nightmare and that the forest was being felled by an invisible swarm of devils and that at any second I would hear the fearful sound of axes cutting into the flesh of their trunks and the pines would begin to fall. I longed to cry out, but my voice was dry and frozen in my throat, and so I stood before them, watching their perilous motion and yet powerless to stop the terrifying storm that swept through the glade and seemed to force the trees to breaking point.