Perdita (21 page)

Dr. Reid defended her warmly, praising her skills as a physician as well as her courage in a profession deeply prejudiced against women. I wondered if there might be romantic sentiments hidden beneath his admiration—yet I sensed a certain hesitancy in him as he spoke of her, and perhaps a touch of overexertion in his praises. Dr. McTavish then turned to me and asked me playfully if I thought women should vote in elections. “Of course,” I responded stoutly, but I was alert to his next volley and refused to be trapped into defending the merits of my entire sex. I knew too well to fall for such a snare—and besides, I had watched him tease his friend Mrs. Ross on exactly the same subject and knew precisely his technique of feint and
thrust.

I don't know how we quite came upon the topic, but Dr. Reid then began to tell us about his interest in diseases of the mind, and especially the ill effects of melancholia and its destructive course if left unchecked. He described the sufferings of some of his patients, and to be sure there were terrible cases among them: a man who was forced to have his hands tied at his sides to prevent himself from savagely biting his own fingers. Oh, and even more dreadful, a woman who tore out her hair a fistful at a time, seemingly unaware that she had done it, and though it left her bleeding and in great pain, she was unable to resist the urge to do so
again.

But then he told a story of a woman whose little girl had died of a sudden illness and that this had left her heartbroken. Her husband tried for many months to turn her thoughts away from the tragic event, but with little success, and he began to grow very worried as his wife's melancholy deepened. It seems that each day she would rise, dress, and then walk to a distant corner of their garden where the child had played, and stand for hours in silence in that location, seemingly lost in thought and with a vacant, sorrowful expression on her face. There was naught that could deter her from this daily activity, not even inclement weather, and eventually the husband was forced to place her in a sanatorium where Dr. Reid now attends
her.

I grew very silent as he told this tale. I don't know why, but I could almost see the woman in my mind's eye and her silent and solitary form…and then I recalled my own self standing at the crest of the hill, brooding and straining to hear—something! Some voice perhaps. I know that it is there, but I cannot hear it, or rather I cannot discern it, though I feel so intimately connected to it. It is a feeling quite unlike any I experience elsewhere—different even than my response to Mother's strange efforts at speech, for those sounds I know to be semblances of words. This other voice I seek out is something quite unlike regular human speech. I thought perhaps this grieving woman felt something of the
same.

“Marged, why are you so silent?” George asked quietly from his place by the fire, and I looked up at him. I realized that he had been studying me closely for several minutes and that I had been aware of it—though I was too preoccupied to become self-conscious.

I shook myself a little, feeling as if I had drifted out of the room and back to the edge of the hill. Dr. Reid was now studying George silently. I rose and moved closer to Dr. McTavish, and then I asked Dr. Reid if he had ever been to the place in the garden where the grieving woman had stood and was astonished when he grew abrupt and even impatient with me. He said no, that he never had been there and would not be inclined to go there for that matter. What could he possibly expect to find there? It was as if he seemed intent upon finding fault with me, and I grew a little
distressed.

I don't know why, but then I asked him somewhat timidly if there were trees in the garden, perhaps? Tall and old pines like the kind near the hill—but I regretted the words as soon as I had uttered
them.

“Trees?” he exclaimed. And then more mockingly, “I suppose there might be trees in a garden. Trees are usually to be found in gardens. But what could they have to do with this poor woman's affliction?” He seemed annoyed with me, but somehow also
fretful.

Then we were all silent. I felt horribly awkward. I did not answer him, and I placed my hand on Dr. McT.'s shoulder, I think seeking a steadying presence in what I felt had become a sea of strangely shifting currents. He wore a thoughtful expression upon his face and patted my hand reassuringly, for I feared that I had somehow offended Dr. Reid. George leaned forward as if to say something, but Dr. McTavish motioned him to be silent. Dr. Reid frowned, looked directly at George, and then got up, abruptly announcing his departure. This of course broke up our
colloquy.

But perhaps Dr. Reid was not really affronted—for before he left, he managed to take my hand and mutter that he hoped that he had not spoken in a way to discomfort me. I tried to withdraw my hand, but he would not let me, and so I assured him that he had not. He explained that he was more accustomed to argumentation with Dr. Stone and sometimes forgot himself in the presence of other kinds of ladies. I cannot imagine what Dr. Reid means by this—except perhaps he sees me as being made of weaker stuff and hence more susceptible to
bruising!

Then I was aggravated, for George and Dr. McTavish had moved into the library, and though I wished to bid him good night, I dared not disturb
them.

And now it is quite late and I am so tired. No doubt I have made no sense at all. I shall ask Edgar to give me a good, sensible scolding in the morning—a request to which he will acquiesce, I am sure, with great
pleasure.

February 4

At last I have met the celebrated Dr. Stone. But perhaps more to the point, I found myself admiring her almost immediately. It was quite by accident, and I am so glad that she has decided to forgive Dr. McTavish and will come to the theatrical he has planned for next
month.

I quite esteem her, and I feel that we have a kindred curiosity about each other. She is a strongly built woman, and her face, though pleasantly feminine, is quite square, and her expression kind but unyieldingly practical. She must be at least ten years my senior and has soft brown eyes and almost masculine lips, but her expression is frank and direct, and there is a kind of firm gentleness about her that I am drawn to. She is like looking into a clear pool of water, and though it is not deep, one is unaccountably reassured to see the
bottom.

I learned that Dr. Stone has dedicated herself to administering medicine to working women—for such is how she refers to them—and by this I understand she means principally poor women who are employed in the factories not far from where she lives. She lately had a great triumph at one such place. Until quite recently, the women had no separate washing areas and were forced to share facilities with men, but she succeeded in getting the women their own washroom. She also trains nurses to visit the homes and teach the women about sanitation and other such matters. I quite admire her, but I could not help thinking of Auntie and of how she might respond to a visit from Dr. Stone and her nurses. In fact, as I think of it, I should be rather worried for Dr. Stone!

February 7

My grandfather arrived today—he is two days early! My heart is still pounding as I think of our rather frosty meeting in the library. He, too, insists on speaking English, and I am so grateful to Dr. McT. for being there and helping me through that awful encounter. After a brief greeting, he watched me silently for a full minute, and I would not lower my eyes from his piercing stare. Finally he muttered that I was quite like my mother, and I, a little defiant, thanked him for the
compliment.

I am undoubtedly a little wary of him, for I cannot forget that it was he who insisted that Tad depart before he would come to see his daughter. But truly, I do not know how to conduct myself toward him. He spent some time with Dr. McTavish while I went to dress, and then when I appeared with my cloak, he announced that he would be going with Aunt Louise to visit Mother; it was clear that I was not to accompany them for this first
meeting.

***

All day Dr. McTavish has been so kind and has tried to distract me. He has read to me from Mr. Thompson's letter and of his adventures in Italy, where he is sojourning for the winter. Mr. Thompson is quite an engaging writer, and usually I would have been an eager listener, but today I am too distracted. I shall just have to trust to Dr. Reid. Oh, I am anxious for their
return!

***

It was as if he knew of my
distress!

Dr. Reid came back to the house with Aunt Louise and Grandpere and held a private discussion with me while the others dressed for dinner. I am sure that he deliberately sought me out to assuage my fears, for he came to find me and I could tell from his concerned expression that I had ill-disguised my anxiety. But he told me all about the meeting between Grandpere and Mother and assured me that Mother took the presence of her father calmly and that he, Grandpere, was very tender with her and even grew misty-eyed as he held her hand and spoke to
her.

I think I must have been under a terrible strain, for I found myself sobbing in Dr. Reid's presence, and though it was great relief to me, I felt a bit of a fool. But he took it all in stride and handed me a linen (though I had my own) and patted my arm. I don't know quite how it happened, and I am sure that he must be quite used to it as a doctor, but I found myself crying against his shoulder while he held me gently. Then Dr. McTavish came in, and I flew to him and had a good cry against his shoulder, too—and now I am not a little ashamed of my
behavior!

But I do feel so much better—and I am resolved to give my grandfather a fair reception. I am equally determined that he will find no deficit of kindness or respect in me and that I shall do my utmost—for Mother's sake—to esteem
him.

February 11

It was most surprising, but George came unexpectedly for luncheon today, and afterward, as we began our preparations to depart, he offered to walk with me to the hospital. Dr. McTavish said he thought this a capital idea, as I sorely needed some exercise. Truly I do miss my walking, for Grandpere always takes the carriage—the
equipage
, as he calls it—and I have been accompanying him. I cannot fault him, for he is at the hospital morning and afternoon. Yesterday I left him for a few moments while he read Hugo to Mother, and when I stole back, he had placed the book facedown on the coverlet and was holding Mother's hand so tenderly and speaking softly to her. I thought that my walking to the hospital might afford Grandpere a little solitude, for Aunt Louise is always with him in the
mornings.

Though I felt a little awkward, I thanked George and accepted his offer. My grandfather looked at him with great attention and seemed about to interfere, but hesitated and then prepared to depart by himself without further
words.

George gave me his arm as we left the house, and I think that this is the first time that we have walked thus. I rather liked that I could be so near him, and that I could turn my face either toward or away from him, and yet not appear unnatural. Still, I was not entirely at my ease, and I sensed that he knew this. He is so very handsome in my eyes—not devilishly handsome, of course—but I do so like his features. And there is not a drop of vanity about
him.

There has been an unusual thaw for this time of year, and the air grew thick with fog as we walked toward Davenport, and George was most solicitous that I should not slip, though there was little to fear, as the path was quite soft and even soggy in
parts.

I let him set the pace, and he kept our gait quite slow—so slow that I began to suspect that Dr. McTavish had spoken to George about my nervousness and that George was overly anxious for my
tranquillity.

Finally, I could stand it no longer and I exclaimed, “George! You are treating me as if I were a frail old
lady!”

I am glad I said it, for it broke the ice between us. He smiled a little sheepishly and replied that he was under strict orders from Dr. McTavish to be careful with me, for Dr. McT. felt I needed fresh air but intimated that my spirits were a little raw. I admitted as much and recounted how I had burst out crying—though I did not tell him about my crying on Dr. Reid's
shoulder.

He was sympathetic and assured me that the strain of meeting my relatives for the first time was bound to take a toll on my emotions. Then he asked about Tad and then Auntie A. and Uncle Gilbert, and before many minutes had passed, I felt more at my ease with him. I told him that I thought his mother and mine knew each other in Montreal, and he nodded in assent though he offered no further information. Then I asked him about Allan, and he smiled ruefully, calling him a rapscallion, but I could see his great affection for Allan in the curve of his
lips.

Then I told George some of the things that Aunt Louise had told me about my family, and he listened with great interest. Before I knew it, I was telling him about my grandfather's antipathy for Tad and how difficult it was to know how to conduct myself toward him. George, I think, knew intimately of what I spoke, and it wasn't until later that I realized that I might have been describing aspects of his own relations with his
stepfather.

George asked me if I might like to go to Paris and see for myself some of the places that my aunt had described—and perhaps visit the homes of my ancestors. I told him of Mr. Thompson's amusing letter and of the colony of wild cats that he had discovered at the Colosseum, musing that perhaps I might choose Rome over Paris if I had but one choice in the matter. And then he related some of his own impressions of Italy and of his time in Paris as a student of
art.

I was almost saddened to come to the hospital entrance, as it put an end to our discussion. George deposited me in the vestibule, understanding that Mother could have no visitors other than her family. Dr. Reid met us there and seemed to be in quite an ill temper. I feared that something terrible had happened, and he quickly had to reassure me that it was not so. He was quite curt to George, and it struck me that perhaps the two men do not take to one another; they are indeed quite different in some
respects.