Perdita (16 page)

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 two
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.

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.