Perdita (17 page)

“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 his 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…”

He looked at me with such a puzzled expression that I could not bear to face him as I spoke, so I turned my head away and addressed the wall. “I know you must, and of course you will be a great artist, and Miss Ferguson, her father—will be your—sponsor—but—”

Then it burst from me: “Oh, I am afraid that you will sell that painting—the one of the cedar
chapel!”

It came out as a rush of words, all jumbled and confused, not at all the way I had intended to express myself. I pressed my hands to my temples in an agony of frustration. I did not know how to speak to him! I sounded like such a
fool!

He drew back, a little surprised. “What the devil has Allan been telling you?” he
exclaimed.

“George,” I said, sighing, and then suddenly sitting upright, I grasped his hand and pressed it with agitation. “Please, please do not sell that painting!” I pleaded with
him.

My voice must have alarmed him and perhaps the feverish glitter of my eyes, for his expression grew more worried. Auntie Alis came to me and stood by us, wringing her hands
nervously.

“She is not herself, Mr. Stewart,” she murmured. “Her mind wanders in her fever, and she takes a fancy
to…”

The effort drained me of all energy, and I sank back against my pillow exhausted. I think I wished I might die, though the thought that my illness was a truly serious one had not occurred to me. In that moment it seemed to me George had been gone a long time and that he was going away again, perhaps forever, and that the painting, too, would disappear and with it would go a piece of my own
soul.

My breath became labored, and I pulled at my collar, for it seemed to choke me, and my chest felt hot and tight and
burning.

“Mrs. Barclay,” George said quietly, “I want you to fetch Dr. Clowes right
away.”

Auntie Alis ran from the room, and I grew fretful again and started to toss and turn, pulling at my coverlet. I could not still my hands; they seemed to travel to my face and hair, and then they rested on George's sleeve and flew away as if burnt by hot
fire.