Perdita (29 page)

“No, Marged,” he said. “Do not mistake me—” but he left his sentence unfinished. Then he walked to the chair opposite mine and sat down, pressing his hands to his temples and leaning forward onto his elbows. I was at such a loss; he seemed so agitated that it quite distressed me to see him in such a state. I rose and went over to him, and then I placed my hand timidly on his
shoulder.

“George,” I whispered, “I wish that your heart weren't so twisted up inside you! Does it not offer you counsel?” He took my hand and pressed it to his lips as if to prevent himself from speech. I do not know how long I stood there next to him with my hand thus, but I felt a soft tranquillity steal over me, and I was loath to move. It was George who finally stirred and then got up. He turned away from me, asking me somewhat awkwardly to forgive him, and then muttering that he was not quite himself and that I shouldn't pay any heed to what he had said. I waited silently for a few seconds, and we both could hear the wind howling down the chimney and the soft humming of the embers
below.

At last Dr. McTavish came in and broke the silence. He was frowning at George and pressed me to leave them and ready myself for dinner. George bid me good evening in a husky voice, and I sensed that he would not be joining us for
supper.

I could barely speak—what words had I to say to him? I turned and left him standing with his back to me. I do not think that I shall ever forget that image of him. I still see it before me now; even as my eyes fill with tears, I see it
still.

April 9

I miss Aunt Louise so terribly—and am more than ever grateful for her assistance in helping me pack up our belongings. And yet there is so much left to do! Dr. McT. is a dreadful responsibility—he will even unpack the boxes that I have readied. I am sure now that Mr. Thompson must have been a saint to undertake all these preparations, for I am almost at my wit's
end.

And George—will I see him again before we go? The Stewarts, I know, are coming to the Lodge toward the beginning of May, but I do not know if he will be among their company. Surely he will come to see me before I
leave!

April 10

Dr. Reid has reassured me that I have acted under some great strain and a depression of spirits, but I must admit that I did not tell him
everything.

Very late last night, I felt an inexplicable and urgent desire to get outside. I woke up hot and fretful, my chest constricted as if I could not breathe, and though I rose and lit a candle, still I could not shake my
unease.

And then, seemingly acting on impulse, I wrapped myself up in my green shawl and descended the stairs. The house was dark and silent, but still I managed to find my boots in the vestibule, and I drew out my cloak from the front closet. I do not know why, but I felt strongly impelled to go outside. I opened the front door carefully and left it slightly ajar; the cold instantly penetrated my wrappings, but still I did not yield to mental arguments urging me to return to my bed. I stepped out onto the pathway and into a sheer and utter darkness—there was a strange surfeit of some forceful emotion moving through me that I could not for the world explain, and yet I felt it so powerfully drawing me out into the frigid night air and toward my copse of trees at the far end of the doctor's property, near the edge of the old Lake. I thought I heard Dr. Reid's disapproving voice, informing me once again that of course one might expect trees to be in a garden, but I did not heed
him.

I followed the path toward the gate and then pushed on through it. The temperature was so cold it hurt my throat to breathe, and I could feel the wind pushing against my back, driving me toward the ledge and the tall forms of the pines. I stopped before them and looked up to see the trees in such a terrible tumult—twisting and turning in the wind, bending and groaning as if they might break. I felt as if I were in some horrible nightmare and that the forest was being felled by an invisible swarm of devils and that at any second I would hear the fearful sound of axes cutting into the flesh of their trunks and the pines would begin to fall. I longed to cry out, but my voice was dry and frozen in my throat, and so I stood before them, watching their perilous motion and yet powerless to stop the terrifying storm that swept through the glade and seemed to force the trees to breaking
point.

I do not know how he found me or why he came, but Dr. McTavish was suddenly beside me, drawing me away from the trees; he was still dressed in his evening clothes and without a coat. He called my name and attempted to pull me back toward the house, but I resisted
him.

“What is happening?” I cried, pointing to the trees. “What is it that is trying to destroy
them?”

“Marged,” he shouted next to my ear. I could barely hear him, for the sound of the boughs tossing was overwhelming. “Let him go! You must let him
go!”

“What do you mean?” I cried. It seemed as if the whole forest was about to collapse upon us. The trees were moving with such wild
agitation!

“Let him go,” he insisted, this time as if beseeching me, and then somehow I knew he meant George, and I sank down as if some livid cord of fire had been extinguished in me. Then the trees quieted, and I knew they were out of danger—and though their boughs continued to move with a lingering restlessness, I knew them to be
safe.

Dr. McTavish led me back to the house and saw me safely into bed, covering me up as he would a small child and staying with me to see that I was settled. As he departed, he asked me if I wished him to leave the candle burning, but I told him that I wanted only
darkness.

April 11 [?] (One page
missing.)

…My eyes filled, and I turned away from him. Again, what was he asking me? I was not sure, but he grew so quiet and anxious. He took my hand and held it for a few moments, almost in a mournful manner. Then he just left—without saying a word. I am glad that he did not say good-bye. Somehow I am
glad.

I think I must be in love with George—or in love with the part of him that paints such beautiful
pictures.

April 15

We are arrived at Owen Sound and will spend the evening in this hotel. I had hoped to see Tad, but he has not as yet arrived, for we were told that the water was quite rough yesterday and this may have delayed
him.

I am sure that I have been a wretched companion for Dr. McTavish; honestly, I do not know what possessed me to be so peevish with him! And he has been so kind and patient that I doubly feel remorse for my
conduct.

I think it was that he insisted upon interrogating me as to what birds I recognized as we stopped in each station, and then I must also name the trees that we saw through the window as the train moved northward. I was so enthralled to see the forests as they appeared and then grew suddenly frustrated at having to name the species for him, including, of course, all their Latinates. I am sure that Dr. McT. did this to distract me, for I have been most anxious about the trip and how Mother might take it. She, however, has done beautifully and seems quite content…but I grew aggravated, for I felt that I knew my trees quite well enough, though I do not possess his naturalist's
eye.

I tried to explain that I do
see
them—not as he does, but I see the trees in their movement or form, as they stand together. Was it not enough that I should see them
so?

He said that I was now trained to see things differently—to develop new powers of observation—for such was how I could paint his illustrations and provide the detail that he desires for them. I grew peevish and declared my dissatisfaction with my painting of the grebe. I exclaimed that though it took so much care to render each of its feathers, yet to me it looks nothing like a real grebe! In my mind's eye, I said, I see the bird as a shadow moving on the water—the outline of a head—and then I hear it calling and know it to be a grebe. I cannot see it without the sky and
water…

My thinking no doubt was all in a tumult—for I know Dr. McT. to be correct in teaching me to know the trees individually and to learn the habits of different birds so that I might identify them. Mr. Muir does the same, urging us to love nature as a teacher. Dr. McTavish said that if what one saw was “just trees,” then they belonged to no one, and that is why the timber companies cut them down and destroyed the forests without thought to preserving parts of them. He said that the naturalist must appreciate the trees and study their attributes, for in so doing, we show them to be the homes of birds and other
animals.

I responded that I did not disagree, but that it was not what I meant at all when I said that I saw them whole—to me their great beauty is in their
collection,
in the way they seem to tumble into each other. Dr. McT. shook his head and said that a forest is no “tumble” but rather a “system” that naturalists understood best. I suppose that he is right, but I was stubborn and closed up my lips, and would not speak further on it. And now I am truly sorry for my ill
temper.

Tad has come to meet us! I can hear his voice
below!

April 17

Home! At last, I am home! Even now, Claude thrusts his great, lovely head into my lap, demanding
all
of my
attention.

April 18

Beautiful and alive—there are a thousand things that I might write of and yet I cannot. I want to see everything at once—be everywhere at once. Auntie's hairbrush always placed to one side of her dresser, the sound of distant waves stirring in the morning—the smell of Tad's rags for cleaning his gun and the new grass as it whispers near the Basin. They are all exquisite to me, defying any order or description that I might give them in my journal. For once I am not drawn to writing, but only do so from a reluctance to abandon my
habit.

April 19

Uncle Gil says that I have become quite a lady! He will not let me do my chores as I have done before, but instead takes the water pail and will carry it for me and will not allow me to carry the wood. Yesterday he lifted me onto Flore, but not at my request, for I have mounted her by myself many a
time.

Have I changed
so?

It is true that I wear my hair a little differently, and that my clothes are finer than before, but I am not changed. Each day I seem to find more and more of
myself!

April 20

I am so happy to be here—and yet there is a restlessness in me that exists alongside a deep contentedness. It is George, of course: I think I am waiting for him to come with the boaters, and though I keep reminding myself that he will not, still I go to the Basin almost every evening to watch for
him.

April 21

Tonight I walked the long way round to the Basin—away from the fishing camp, for already there are quite a number of the families there, and I can smell the smoke from their fires. I came to the clearing and saw two schooners and knew that the season was starting again—a season with all its familiarities and routines, its constants and continuities. But even so, I feel a hollowness—though my heart devours each blessing and each returning
part.

Claude followed me out to the Point and stayed close by my side as if to offer me his sympathy for a mood he discerned but did not understand. I looked at the Lodge thinking of George, and though the Stewarts will come and Allan is so dear to me, still it will be lifeless without him. I grew anxious, for I wondered if I might ever be happy here without George. As if George and this place were one and the same, and in denying me his heart, he had absconded with part of my soul and I should never be
whole.

I was angry with myself for such thoughts, and so I walked back along the coastline, and it did me good to walk across the stones and choose my footing carefully. I felt the quick alliance between foot and eye as I stepped briskly from rock to rock, and no jagged outcropping stopped me, for I mounted these and made my way across them
undeterred.

It did me much good, for the water was rough and restless, out of sympathy with the shore and dissatisfied with itself. Perhaps I was a fitting companion, for I am also out of sorts with
myself.

Yet even so, I think that I am perversely pleased that I might brew a storm for no apparent reason. I'd swig my storm down—like Dr. Stone and her whiskey! Perhaps that is why she drinks—not to quell but to nourish some inner storm that has no impassive shoreline and weathered rocks to endure
it.

April 22

I am sending a letter to George—am I foolish to do so? Will it only pain him…or perhaps he will treat it as the foolish fancy of a young girl. And yet I
must
write to him. I am wrong to think of us as day and night! Perhaps George did try to cross the threshold—and it was I who
withdrew.

But do I possess the courage to send it to
him?

April 22, 1898

Dear
George,

The last time we saw each other, you asked me if I might go away—with a man like yourself, you said, and travel all the world. I did not answer your question but instead evaded
you.

I am sorry for this. It was unworthy of you. I do not know your thoughts, and much of the time you seem to avoid me—and then you are there again, saying things I cannot fully
fathom.

Dr. McTavish has told me that you will be leaving soon, and I fear that I shall not see you for a long time. I cannot think that it will be forever; surely there will be a time when our paths might cross
again.

I am afraid that you might think that my regard for you is…so much less than it truly is. Perhaps this is my fault, for ever do I seem contrary in your presence. And yet, I do not mean to be so! I do not know how you mix your paints or indeed how you know to place your brush in such a way that the strokes convey the spirit of this place; it is only a part, but it is such that I can see the Bay in your canvases, living and real! I can see the trees, and I hear them moving, though your canvas is silent. I do not know how you do this, and it is a wondrous thing to me because I can do nothing like it. I can only be here—as a part of this
place.