Perdita (13 page)

I found the quiet of the graveyard strangely soothing, and though the light grew dim, I did not like to move. As I sat thus, an evening fog came up over the hill and spread downward over all the stones and enveloped me in a moist cloud. Still I did not move, and my mind wandered as if in a dream over nothing in particular, and I felt an incongruous but pleasing stupor steal over
me.

I must have lingered by the grave for nearly an hour, but was finally roused by Flore's impatient whinnying and the feeling of a chill settling in my chest. I rose and stamped my feet and saw that the fog had grown denser. It gave the place a cold, gloomy cast, and all of a sudden, I wished to leave it. The fog disoriented me, though, and as it thickened I could not tell which was the way to the bluff and which the way back to the iron gate. I became rather disconcerted as the fog quickened its descent and swirled around me, for I realized that I could see only a few paces in front of me. This advantage soon vanished in the churning fog, and I looked about as a blind person
might.

I turned to touch Flore's flank, and I drew myself up and away from the grave. It was then that I thought I felt a little hand, ice cold, take my fingers and give a tug to them. I cried out in fear and drew my hand away quickly, urging Flore forward while I walked at her side. My heart was racing so! She led me up and out of the graveyard, and as we cleared the gate, I chastised myself for my imagination. I mounted Flore quickly and we rode off toward the cottage, taking the longer but surer
road.

The fog had lifted a little when I was a mile or so from home. I passed by Mr. Brown's farm and saw that three men were stopped in conversation by his gate. The darkness was descending fast, but by the rising moon, I could make out the outlines of Mr. Brown, his son Donald, and Captain Howarth, who was standing next to a black mount. Donald stepped out a few paces and raised his arm in greeting, but I only nodded and hastened forward, for I had no desire to stop in conversation with Captain
Howarth.

I rode on quickly, but it was with a strange anxiety. I had stayed on the main road because of the fog, but I knew that if I remained on it, Captain Howarth could, without much effort on his faster horse, overtake me and force his company upon me for the remainder of my journey. Deciding to take a path that edged the woods, I urged Flore off the
road.

Ere ten minutes had passed when I heard the faint sound of horse hooves behind me. I dismounted quickly and pulled Flore with haste into a thicket of trees, and there I waited, winded from my exertions and dismayed that it was perhaps Captain Howarth, and that he had guessed my detour and was following
me.

I thought that it must be nine o'clock or thereabouts, but the fog had made the evening so dark that I strained my eyes into the blackness. Soon I saw the form of Captain Howarth—I could tell him by his officer's cap—guiding his horse slowly along the path, the reins held tightly in one hand. He was just a silhouette, yet I felt a strange dread come over me and grew still. I felt as a tiny animal might in the presence of a larger predator, hardly daring to breathe or
move.

I watched him, my eyes never leaving his dark outline, and I thought of how I would escape into the forest and what direction my flight would take should Flore's breathing betray me. But she was as silent as I, and he—as if he knew we were close by—halted but a few paces
away.

My nerves were sorely tested in those few minutes, and I took a deep and soundless breath to steady my trembling and calm my inner turmoil. Indeed I felt him to be a dangerous
man!

I do not know how long he stood there, but at last he stirred his horse and, giving it a vicious kick, made his way in the direction of the main road. Even then I did not trust that my safe passage was assured, and so Flore and I remained hidden for several minutes longer. At last I felt that I might creep forward. I led Flore soundlessly across the meadow, and upon reaching the other end, I rode quickly the last half mile home along the track, seeing and hearing no
one.

I have not told Tad, but I am disturbed by these events, though I think the chill I feel deep in my bones is perhaps more of the fog's doing than Captain Howarth's.

August 14

I have not felt quite myself for the past few days, and a dry, hot cough disturbs me at night. My dreams, too, sometimes disturb me. It is that little girl—my Perdita. I do not know why she comes to me in my dreams. Have I beckoned her forth—awakened her and drawn her from her
grave?

But I grow so very tired, and even the walk to the Lodge seems to fatigue me. But still I have gone. Allan and I have spent most of our time helping Dr. McTavish organize his papers—or so we call the afternoon's activities. We always seem to start with good intentions, but somehow a conversation commences, and then we are deeply engrossed in listening to Dr. McTavish describe the habits of his birds, and then he always has something to show us. Next we are off, following a trail in the woods. Indeed, he is very disorganized, but we have found some of the most marvelous treasures in his piles of papers and notes—wondrous illustrations that he has done of birds, male and female. I rather suspect that he has forgotten about them, for he becomes so enthusiastic about the next project that the former one is quickly pushed
aside.

But his knowledge of birds is truly formidable! Today he told us about the chimney swift (
Chaetura
pelagica
).

Allan thought that he had espied a family of them in the ruins of the old barn, and Mr. Thompson told us this was quite unusual as swifts are usually city birds and rarely venture out into a forested area. Dr. McTavish expressed skepticism (he never says a word but just looks at Mr. Thompson over his glasses in a pointed fashion), and so we all trekked out to the barn with field glasses in hand and waited for the swifts to return. We went at twilight, as Dr. McTavish said that this would be the best time to catch the birds returning to their
roost.

The forest was quite beautiful, and there was just a hint of change in the air—something I feel at this time of year and yet can hardly describe. It is the light, I suppose. It loses its bold, summertime quality and is somehow more muted and languorous. It is as if it knows the fall is coming and signals us—and yet there is no need for hurry, it seems to
say.

We waited for half an hour in silence, hidden from view behind a thicket of cedars. It was Allan who saw them first. The swifts are not nesting in the old barn at all but in the cavity of a rotting tree. Mr. Thompson explained in a whisper that these creatures are possessed of very weak legs and so are ever reluctant to land. They feed and mate and even sleep while flying! I expressed disbelief at the latter, but Dr. McTavish confirmed that indeed they do sleep while flying, giving themselves over to the wind currents while they rest. I believe I should like to be one of them if I were a bird—for once airborne, I think that I might wish to ride the wind as long as I could, like a
cloud.

We made our way back to the doctor's lodge, rather rapidly, for the mosquitoes found us just as the darkness set in and they pursued us with vigor, though we all had our netting on. Dr. McTavish's abode is quite a cozy place—in a rumpled, dare I say untidy, masculine sort of way. By this, I suppose I mean that no feminine touch has ever ordered it, at least to my knowledge. Dr. McTavish will not have a housekeeper, and it is Mr. Thompson who serves as assistant, valet, cook, and house servant. He is, in appearance, an extremely neat man, fastidious as to his clothes and person, and I have often noted that his hands are ever clean and well manicured in spite of all the work he does with
them.

Mr. Thompson is quite an enigma: he is always surprising us, just as he did this evening. After we returned, Dr. McTavish insisted that we light a fire, and he poured us all a glass of sherry. Before long we were pleasantly encamped around the hearth with his two dogs, Bruce and Clem, at our feet. He says they are named after two of his adversaries at the university and it is his revenge to treat them “as dogs”! He only chuckles when I point out how kind a master he is, and he says that kindness
is
his revenge. Unfathomable
man!

We ate a dinner of bread and cheese, though Allan burnt the toast dreadfully. I don't know how we quite got upon the subject—perhaps it was the sherry that prompted it—but Dr. McTavish as ever began to discuss birds and before long was discoursing on his favorite, the cedar waxwing, his darling
Bombycilla
cedrorum
. I rather think that Dr. McTavish is drawn to this bird because of its somewhat unusual but rather gentlemanly personality. He explained that the male is apt to gorge himself on fermenting berries in the spring and the result is a remarkable, if rather wobbly, courtship dance. Allan and I expressed disbelief and refused to have our legs pulled, or so we said. And then, of course, Dr. McTavish had to demonstrate the dance—his face and eyes becoming instantly like that of a bird—and he moved about like a slightly tipsy courtier, now proudly puffing out his chest and then tilting his head in what we gathered would be an alluring fashion to a female
waxwing.

We were transfixed by his performance, and before long, and to our delight, we were subject to a wondrous repertoire of birdcalls and behaviors. Mr. Thompson is himself quite talented in this regard, though he is not as advanced in his skills as Dr. McTavish. Still, his rendition of a blue jay was remarkable, and even Dr. McTavish admitted that he had never heard better. The evening progressed from birds to poetry, and—I rather think a few glasses of sherry later—Mr. Thompson, to our utter astonishment and at no instigation, rose solemnly and recited Tennyson's “Charge of the Light Brigade” from memory. Not only did he recite it, but he performed it with dramatic gestures and theatrical tones. It was a Mr. Thompson that we had never seen before, and I found myself wondering if some secret twin had crept into the room, spirited the real Mr. Thompson away, and taken his
place!

When he had finished, Allan and I stared at him, quite speechless. I think we clapped a little awkwardly but with genuine appreciation. Then, with barely a moment's pause, Mr. Thompson strode to the front of the fireplace, placed his thumbs in the top two buttonholes of his jacket, and fixed his eyes on a distant point behind us. He cleared his throat and then proceeded to recite “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” in its entirety! I practically held my breath as he beautifully narrated the familiar stanzas. When he had finished, we sprang up spontaneously and applauded loudly. We spoke all at once, Dr. McTavish intoning deep “bravos” and Allan whooping shrilly as if his school team had just scored at a rugby match. Mr. Thompson turned to me to see my response. I, of course, smiled and indicated my appreciation, and he seemed quite
gratified.

We must have made quite a racket, for George strode in and found us all in animated conversation. I think that the sherry had much to do with Mr. Thompson's spontaneous performance, for we had to lead him back to his chair, as he seemed almost on the verge of physical collapse. We praised his performance over and over again to George, who assumed a gently cynical expression, as if he wished to tease us with his disbelief. This, of course, only made us argue our case more energetically, and his smile turned into a wide grin when he espied the bottle of sherry sitting calmly on the mantelpiece. He picked the bottle up and held it to the light as if measuring its contents, and I could not help but laugh at his
insinuation.

“Dr. McTavish,” he began. “I am shocked, sir. Truly shocked to find that audiences are being plied with spirits to elicit favorable responses for your
theatricals.”

We all laughed, especially at Dr. McTavish's sheepish grin and at George's mocking refusal to share a glass with him. George pretended to turn his nose up at the sherry but said that he might be able to find some interest for the doctor's scotch. I did not know it, but Dr. McTavish has a very fine supply in his “cellar,” that is, a crate carefully preserved in his library. Then he and George had a glass of the amber fluid, but I absolutely would not let Allan have any; I did not think that they would really allow it, but it was better that I, a woman, refused it on his
behalf.

I had not heeded the clock, but the hour had gotten late when much to our surprise there was a knock at the door. It was Tad come to get me, and I immediately jumped up, vexed with myself for causing him undue worry and the inconvenience of the walk from the lighthouse. He smiled, though.

“Sit, daughter,” he said. “Gil may watch the Light for a time without
me.”

We stayed for half an hour, and Tad had just a small glass of scotch with the others—though not Mr. Thompson, for he retired soon after Tad
arrived.

I sat by the fire with Allan, who had grown quite sleepy, and I listened to the men talking, drawn to the sound of their voices. I could tell that they liked each other—though perhaps without each man knowing the other well. Their words tested each other in a way that intrigued me: each man with his own hammer striking the other's surface with skill and listening for the true ring of steel. At times they did it with seriousness and at others with humor, but I felt them drawing out that deep sound from one another…the sound of a good
man.

I could hear Tad's resonant, solid strength so clearly and the doctor's, too—but George's was a little softer. I took note of him, for he did not speak as much as the others, as if deferring to the older men. It was peculiar to see him as the youngest man, for to me he has always been so much older than I. But this evening I saw him as a young man next to Tad. I felt, I think for the first time in my life, the true and manly beauty of my father's
life.

We walked home, Tad and I, with my arm in his. The night air had turned chill, and we spoke but little. When he reached the cottage, he turned to me and patted my
arm.

“No need to tell Alis about my visit,” he said. “It would only fret
her.”