Perdita (14 page)

He grinned impishly, and I could see his eyes twinkling in the darkness. I knew he was referencing the scotch, and I smiled thinking of how Auntie A. would respond to my own,
single
glass of
sherry.

August 18

Dr. McTavish's hands are not as steady as they once were, and he has had me helping him with his drawings. Today I worked upon an illustration of a male purple martin (
Progne
subis
), and he was so pleased with my efforts that he says he will teach me to do more of the illustrations. In this fashion, then, I may be of great assistance to his book. I must admit that I am very pleased with his confidence, for I have never thought of my fingers as skilled in artistic
pursuits.

Perhaps it is a result of my work with him, but I feel that I can depend upon Dr. McTavish's judgment and that he will respect my confidence. I told him about my nighttime encounter with Captain Howarth. To be sure I have been a little preoccupied and I am strangely reluctant to tell Tad about it. The doctor listened gravely and asked me a few questions. He wanted to know particularly if the detour I had chosen was visible from the Brown farm, and I said that I thought not. Then he asked me if the roads were muddy and if Flore might have left tracks, and I recollected that it was wet and damp owing to the fog and that perhaps we had, if someone cared to look closely. Then I told how Captain Howarth had stopped but five paces away and seemed to be searching for—something.

Dr. McTavish listened most carefully, and then he shook his head and muttered that it was not the behavior of an honest
man.

I did not mention the previous incident at our cottage, but Dr. McTavish grew rather serious and looked at me in an anxious way over the rim of his glasses. Mr. Thompson must have been listening from the other room, for he entered the library as I was finishing and wore a very grave and worried
expression.

I almost immediately regretted relating these events to Dr. McTavish and do not know what possessed me to do so, for now I suspect that he will wish me to be prudent in my choice of walks and excursions, especially when alone. And yet I am so resentful of these precautions. I have ever been free in my movements here, and I cannot—I will not—be circumscribed by the likes of a Captain
Howarth!

August 22

I worked with Dr. McTavish until late in the evening, taking my dinner with him. Mr. Thompson cooked a simple but quite tasty meal of sausages and a kind of sliced potato that he says is a family recipe. They both eat by the fire with plates on their laps, and so I joined them, though I was rather preoccupied with not spilling the sauce that Mr. Thompson heaped upon my potatoes. I began to help Mr. Thompson clear the dishes, but he seemed so embarrassed by my presence in the kitchen that I left him to complete the task
alone.

I sat with Dr. McTavish for a while, and from his window we could see lights at the Stewarts' lodge grow dim. At one point, I fancied that I saw Allan gamboling about on the back porch, and then we heard old Mr. Stewart's voice calling him in harshly. And then a half hour later, George came by—I suppose he does quite frequently in the evenings—and he talked with the doctor while I finished my work and tidied our drawing materials. I heard them talking about Miss Ferguson and her enthusiasm for George's paintings. George seems quite animated about the prospect of a show in New
York.

I wonder if George wishes to be famous; I suppose that I have not contemplated this, at least as regards to myself. I have always thought of fame as something that comes to a person because of what he does—like Mr. Muir, I assume. But Allan has mentioned the great difficulties George has faced with his paintings and his restlessness at his own insignificance because the critics do not appreciate his work. To be sure, this seems to be the lot of many artists. It brings to my mind stories I have heard about painters working alone, in poverty and isolation, and then going mad little by little, day by day. Oh, I do not think George will pursue that route! I dearly pray that he might
not!

I cannot express it well, but I know that some of his paintings are timeless, beautiful; they will be recognized as such, of that I am sure. But I do not know when. I hope that it is in his lifetime so that he may experience being recognized. This would be a great blessing. But I also feel that he must risk that it might not be so—perhaps not unlike the chance a tree takes as it grows to be three hundred years old even as its fellows are mercilessly felled. Otherwise George's paintings will not be…true. Not true to himself, not true to this place. Oh, I express it but
poorly!

I know from Allan that Miss Ferguson encourages George to be more…active, I suppose, in making people aware of his art. She says that he must have a sponsor—that all the great artists have had one—and that without one he is doomed to obscurity. Could this be
true?

This evening Mr. Thompson offered to escort me home, but George insisted that he had a matter to discuss with Tad. He was distracted and even a little strained with me as we walked back together. I think he was not pleased to hear of my nocturnal flight from Captain Howarth, for he mentioned that Dr. McTavish had told him of it. I bristled at what I saw as his interference. It is not just a reckless perversity in me. Nor am I insensitive to the kind interest that he takes in my welfare. It is just that I am wary of having my movements restricted by anyone! I could not bear it to be so! I told him as much, though I do not know if he really heard
me.

I feel as if I must take the dangers of this place as part of my freedom here; a bear, a man, a snake—any might disturb me, and yet I do not feel as if harm would come to me. Is this a reckless confidence? Did the trees, too, grow in innocence, trusting to the future, only to be cut down so brutally by the axes and greed of
men?

George stopped me before we entered the cottage gate and said that I must consider those who might worry as a result of my indifference to their concerns. He said this rather sternly, and I shrank from his tone. I asked him if he would have stayed back in the storm from rescuing the
Mary
Jane'
s passengers because of our worry for his
life?

He said it was not the same but—I cannot explain—somehow it is for me. Are women to have no courage, too? I must have my freedom to move, to be alive—here! I assured him that I was not careless but that I should detest the fear—the fear of…and then I could not entirely describe
it.

There have been times when I have walked toward the water, out into the blackness at night right below the light station: it is so dark that I cannot tell where the water begins and the land ends. And my heart is always thumping wildly. It feels as if I am being swallowed alive by something enormous and terrifying. I know that if I give in to my fear, I can turn back and run away to safety, and yet I go on, refusing my fear. Then, when I am there at the edge, with the water almost at my feet and the vastness of the sky making me feel smaller and yet smaller, and the Bay unseen and waiting in front of me—I know to stop. I come to rest just past the moment where my fear might prevent me from taking another step. And then I feel truly in the company of the stones who have only true fear. The Bay seems so old to me then—older than even I can imagine, old enough to be
eternal.

Of course I did not tell George all this. I am sure he thinks me contrary. He spent a good hour alone with Tad, and now I am vexed because I do not know what they
discussed.

August 26

We have a new dog—a great big beast named Claude, and Tad has asked me to take charge of him. He is one of Mr. Samuels's dogs, a mastiff, and he is such a large brute with wide, watery eyes. I think he has taken a fancy to me, for he follows me everywhere and waits outside without as much as a whimper while I am occupied. Clem and Bruce sniffed him from head to tail and then left off, as if to say that he was acceptable, but barely so! At first Dewi would not even condescend to acknowledge Claude's existence, and of course—as an infinitely superior feline—Agnes won't deign to notice a
dog.

Tad says that Claude did not get along well with Mr. Samuels's other dogs, though I am puzzled as to how such a lugubrious animal could incite animosity in another creature. His spirits are so…melancholic and yet so endearing. Claude is quite appreciative in his way and most painfully loyal; he has made me feel as if I have an obligation to keep
him
company!

I think that Dewi is secretly very pleased to have a companion, but only after his authority was established. It is really quite funny to see Claude, who is a great, hulking thing, deferring to little, energetic Dewi. After one day they were the best of
friends.

I brought Claude up to meet Mother, and he was most well behaved. He walked up to her bedside in quite a dignified manner and placed his head where she could easily touch it. He seemed so apologetic for the intrusion, and I could have sworn that his little grunts were a “good day, ma'am.” Mother smiled and tried to stroke his ears, and I was so pleased. She seems a little better. I read to her from Victor Hugo's letters, and she held my hand while I
read.

It is awful to remember it, but Auntie says that we are lucky Mother did not die; I was not allowed to go near her at first, and it almost killed me. Auntie A. was afraid to let me see her, for the seizure was quite disfiguring at first. But Tad sat with her every day for
hours.

I remember rushing away from St. Ed's, my clothes all a jumble in my trunk, and then taking the train to Owen Sound the day after the telegram summoned me home because she might be dying. I held it all the way in my hand, crushing it and telling myself that it could not be true. And then I could not see her—not really see her—for
weeks!

And now she is so silent. The woman who has been my teacher and companion my whole life, unable to speak even simple words. Even at the college, I felt her with me: it is because she has always been so patient, always guiding and nurturing me. It is she who really understands me—who understands the true nature of choices. Yet even without words, somehow Mother and I communicate; ever do I feel her love, as if some invisible thread connects us
forever.

Her Christian name is Fabienne, and I love to hear Tad speak it: he says it in such a tender way that time seems to stop. I know he loves her dearly—my rough Tad. She was supposed to marry…a man of a different class, I suppose. Tad went to school, but she—she was very well educated. It seems not to have made a difference between them, and sometimes I have wondered about this. Could I ever care for a man who was not educated? I know that there is a difference between ignorance and an education. I could never bear the former! Auntie A. said Mother's family was very rich, but I am certain this is an exaggeration. Mother once told me that her father's plans to marry her were thwarted when a young soldier rescued her from her carriage. It had overturned in the street because one of the wheels had broken. She was not injured, but that is all I know of how they met—except that in Montreal I have a grandfather who seems very angry with Tad. And there is Mother's sister, my Aunt Louise, who prays fervently for a family reconciliation. It seems all so remote and unreal from here. I have never met either of them, though Aunt Louise writes us
faithfully.

Could I ever be so hard as to disown my own child for marrying the man she loved? I cannot imagine doing such a cold and heartless thing; it seems a tyranny that only humans are capable of. For though we call animals dumb beasts without the discernment of good and evil, is it not worse to possess a soul that can love deeply and then betray it because of our own
prejudices?

August 28

Miss Ferguson has persuaded Mrs. Stewart to forgo the annual picnic she always holds at the Lodge for the holiday families, and instead to sail to Collingwood aboard a pleasure boat. I am surprised at her suggestion after what has happened—it seems so thoughtless, especially as she included Dr. McTavish in her invitations. Allan says that Caroline finds the Basin “quaint,” but that she pines for more “interesting” amusements. I have managed to avoid her for most of the summer, and indeed I do not know how she spends her time. I do know that she is with Effie and Mrs. Stewart constantly, and that I have been remiss in my attentions to them, though Dr. McTavish has kept me very busy and my excuse is an honest
one.

Allan is my only source of information on the inner life of the Lodge, and there are times when I wish that my curiosity were not…such that it is. From him I gather that George and Miss Ferguson are quite intimate and that they hold long conversations upon intellectual and philosophical topics. I sometimes wonder if Allan is quite telling me the truth about them, since I catch him out on inconsistencies now and then, but he is quick to query my interest, and then I must drop the
subject.

It seems that Miss Ferguson's father will meet the party in Collingwood and that he is coming to visit Effie and his grandchild and to be introduced to George as a possible sponsor of his work. I know that old Mr. Stewart is quite pleased with Miss Ferguson's attentions to his stepson, but I am not so sure about Mrs. Stewart. I walked past the Lodge at noontime yesterday, and I saw her sitting alone on the front veranda. She beckoned for me to come over and join her, so I advanced and took a chair beside
her.

I noticed with some dismay that her cheeks were moist, as if she had been weeping, but I gave no indication of it. She seemed old and frail all of a sudden, so I rose to fetch a shawl, and I wrapped it gently around her shoulders. As I bent over her, she grasped my hand and almost clutched at it, as if she were afraid to be there alone. I returned her grip firmly, and then I began to tell her about my drawings for Dr. McTavish and about the birds we had netted, keeping my voice low and
soothing.

Mrs. Stewart gave no sign that she heard me, and her eyes seemed vacant, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. At length I stopped, and the silence deepened around us. The she turned to me and said, “How is your
mother?”