Perdita (26 page)

I am a little ashamed that I feel such excitement at the prospect of going home. I must be very careful not to inadvertently injure the warm hearts that have taken such good care of us. Dr. McT. said that Mother may come back next winter if she wishes, but I secretly hope that she will not want to return, or that her health will be such that she does not require further
convalescence.

March 28

I fear that I have not done justice to Dr. Reid, for I have not fully appreciated either his character or the depth of feelings that he seems to conceal so carefully behind his doctor's face. And now I must examine my own self and the nature of my feelings toward him. Have I evaded such investigations? For some inexplicable reason, I wish to avoid this introspection; it is true that I am both very happy at the prospect of going home, and yet unhappy at the prospect of leaving him, for I now see him almost every day and can hardly imagine what it would be like not to have Dr. Reid with
us.

But now he has, to some degree, forced the issue. As we walked back from the hospital this afternoon, he asked me—oh, for once I cannot recall the words exactly! I am sure it was something to the effect of “did I think I could ever feel toward him more than the regard with which I now honor him?” Truly I did not know what to say! For once I wished that I might have a veil to hide my face, but even so, I think my heart thrilled a little. We continued to walk, I striving to make my steps calm, and I did not remove my hand from his arm even as he tightened his grip upon
me.

“Miss Brice—Marged, you are not angry with me?” he said, and I, of course, shook my head. I said that there was no reason to feel anything but gratitude to him, given all he had done for Mother—but he interrupted me. He said that I was speaking to him as to a doctor, but that his question to me had come from himself as a
man.

I looked at him directly at that—and again I caught the restless movement of something in his face. I do so like his face; I have grown to watch its expressions and to depend upon its gentle candor, so that to me he is a very handsome man, though I do not doubt many women might find him a little austere and even grim at
times.

He asked me if I would think upon it, and I assented, and then he said, speaking in uneven tones, that it grieved him to think that a time might come when my presence—when I—would no longer form a part of his day. I listened, and somehow I also felt a bit of the same. I realized that in the joy of going home, I had not thought of what I might leave
behind.

He—I have often heard Dr. McT. call him Andrew—did not directly declare his feelings for me, in words at least, but I can hardly doubt the purport of his expression. But in this I believe he intended that I might silence him immediately if I wished and not be agitated by attentions repugnant to
me.

Yet I did not find his question in the least repugnant, and as much as told him so. In this I was at least honest—but still, I do not know what I might feel for him! Could I love him? I think it safe to say that I have a deep regard for him, and an affection certainly, and though I am extremely sad at the thought of not seeing him each day, still, this does not quell my desire to go
home.

March 29

[Moisture damage for three
paragraphs.]

…and Caroline seemed almost feverish and even a little exultant as we greeted her. Mr. Ferguson was more subdued, and he remained quite aloof, watching the crowd with a critical appraisal, or so it seemed to me—as if George's paintings were now upon the scale, and some unseen hand were moving the weights to secure and then record their
value.

I looked at all of George's paintings—but I was drawn most to the rear room, where he had hung his landscapes, and so I returned there to take more time with them. I had noted at the outset that Mr. Sparke was among the thick throng of visitors and had resolved to avoid him at all costs. I was therefore not a little startled to find him at my side as I perused the landscapes—he bowing once again and mumbling some pleasantry about the evening and how pleasurable it was to find himself among “beautiful things.” I was tongue-tied—of course remembering the violence of my previous encounter with him—and I hardly knew what to say, though I think I uttered some response. He then took my arm in a most cordial fashion and said that I must see the “only really good piece” in the whole
exhibit.

I could hardly refuse, for he seemed quite friendly (and I assumed forgiving), and so we went toward a corner where he drew my attention to a painting set within in an ornate gold frame and executed in dark tones against a vivid and changing background of blue and gray. At my first reconnoiter with the picture, I had recognized the Basin's west shore, just after the sun had set and with the light hovering on the water as the horizon disappeared. At Mr. Sparke's prompting, I moved closer to inspect it—for of course I recognized the scene—and then discerned that there was a darker form, barely perceptible, blended into the shoreline. It was undeniably a female figure; her features were all in shadow except that a careful observer could make out the faint crest on her forehead. All of a sudden I felt self-conscious—for here was the suggestion of my own form—and I wondered if George had drawn me thus, turning away from the Bay to head back home. It was as if he had caught me—in the movement of light and shadow he had caught my
form!

Mr. Sparke was studying me closely, and then he said, “Is this not your portrait, Miss Brice? This one is titled
Eidos
.”

I shook my head, pretending not to
understand.

“This is at once a landscape and a portrait—the figure of the woman blending and moving with the natural elements behind, as if she, too, were in constant motion. I like it far better than the other portraits,” he added, “though Stewart did render Miss Ferguson's formidable but rather static beauty well, wouldn't you
agree?”

Still I was silent, for Caroline's portrait had in truth depressed my spirits, though undoubtedly it was well painted and certainly she was quite beautiful in
it.

I must have remained silent for some moments, and I looked up to find Mr. Sparke staring at me
curiously.

“Tell me,” he continued, undiscouraged by my taciturnity. “You are from these parts, are you not? What do you make of these landscapes?” He indicated with a sweep of his hand the rest of the room. “Do they capture something of this
place?”

I think it must have been his choice of words, for when he uttered “capture,” I felt my back stiffen. I frowned and looked away from him. I do not know why, but I felt irritated by his
question.

“Tell me what you think, Miss Brice,” he urged. “Do not spare me in your choice of
words.”

I shook my head again, frustrated because I did not know how to express myself—and he whispered, “Please.”

Then I paused, choosing my words carefully as my thoughts
formed.

“These paintings do not ‘capture,'” I
said.

“Like those others,” he interjected, pointing toward the front room, and I nodded in spite of
myself.

“Then why do you like these paintings?” he asked me. “Do they not remind you of these places and
scenes?”

“Oh, yes,” I said quickly. “That is precisely it. I know that George has been to these places and that”—how I struggled to express myself!—“and that he did not paint them to take them away somewhere else, but to paint them
as
and
where
they
are.”

I shook my head, feeling that I had expressed myself
poorly.

“Isn't that capturing the spirit of the place, then?”

I shuddered as he said it—and stepped back as if offended at the
thought.

“No,” I exclaimed. “George's paintings never do that—as if to cage a wild creature. They are not just ‘beautiful things' that give a passing pleasure.
You
do not like these pictures because they are not
tame!”

“You are mistaken,” he answered. “I like these ones very
much!”

I was silent, surprised at this confession, and Mr. Sparke stared moodily at
Eidos
for a few moments. Then he turned to look at me, and I grew a little uncomfortable under his
scrutiny.

After some further moments, he said, “Do you not think it is a portrait—even of the
Bay?”

I shook my head and smiled, for I suddenly understood my own thought, and I responded, “The Bay is never still enough to be a portrait. On the calmest of days, there is too much movement even in its repose. I think George understands this somehow. I see it in his
paintings.”

“In
all
his paintings?” he
persisted.

“No,” I whispered, for I wished to be truthful, but I felt a little sad in saying
so.

I don't quite know why, but I felt more kindly disposed toward Mr. Sparke, and even understood a little of why he railed against George, and thought that he perhaps even wished to help
him.

Then, as if discerning my thoughts, he said, “Ah, Miss Brice, now you see that I am not the enemy that you have
supposed.”

Before I could reply, George appeared in the doorway and, seeing us, came up to us, his face composed, though I felt rather than saw an undercurrent of tension in him as he approached Mr. Sparke.

Mr. Sparke's visage assumed a slightly caustic expression, and he quipped, “I have just been discussing your paintings with someone who seems to know far more about them than even you do, Stewart. Miss Brice and I seem to agree that these landscapes represent your best
work—”

“George,” I said interrupting him, and perhaps too precipitously. “That is hardly the case…” But he stopped me and seemed even pleased at Mr. Sparke's
inference.

“Now, about this portrait—” began Mr. Sparke, but I could not bear to remain to hear them discuss the painting, and so I moved quickly away, no doubt appearing rude, but truly I could not help
it.

George followed me, but the room had become so congested that I was forced to pause and wait until a path to the front room cleared. He stopped behind me and, bending quite close, whispered into my ear, “Well, and did you like your portrait, Marged?”

I pretended not to hear, but we were pressed by the crowd and he came even closer—so close that I thought I felt his lips against my
ear.

“Marged,” he said, keeping his voice low. “You must tell
me.”

I nodded, leaning back against him ever so slightly, and I felt him take my hand and hold it, hidden in the folds of my black velvet gown—there in the midst of all those people, and yet the gesture was invisible to all of them! Then, as the crowd dispersed and I moved to go forward, he released my hand, and I felt dizzy, as if I had been placed in water and a brisk current had taken me up. I turned, wishing to ask him why he had titled the painting
Eidos
—but a man approached him and drew his attention elsewhere. And then I was gone, taken into the swirl of the room, coming to rest, at last, upon Dr. McTavish's arm, and there I remained for the rest of the
evening.

March 30

Aunt Louise and Grandpere will leave in a week—and then only another will pass before Dr. McT., Mother, and I
depart.

Grandpere has given me a considerable sum of money, given under the trust of Dr. McTavish until I am twenty-eight years of age. I have asked Dr. McT. not to mention this to anyone, not even Tad, for I fear it will nettle him, and in truth I do not think we quite feel the sting of poverty that Grandpere attributes to us. Indeed, we have always had Mother's money, though Auntie says that it is a modest amount; still we have never suffered for want of funds, and those terrible weeks of deprivation last year were owing to the ice and not to penury. I tried to explain all this to my Grandpere, and he smiled sadly and asked me if I were determined to dissuade him. He asked this of me in such an unusual manner, and I did not wish to appear ungrateful. Then he explained, his back to me and facing the fire, that there were many things that he might have liked to do for me, his only granddaughter, but that a foolish perversity had prevented him—and now there were but few things that he might do and this was
one.

“Beware of perversity, Marged,” he said, turning back to me, and his eyes were full of sorrow. “It is something that your great grandmother had, though she was a great woman and of a gifted intellect. You have a touch of it, I think. I have seen it on occasion in your flashing
eyes.”

Though he spoke a little sternly, as is his habit, I sensed affection in his words, and on impulse I embraced him. He stroked my hair so tenderly that I was glad I had hidden my anger from him, for never have I spoken disrespectfully to him, though at times my heart has held bitter feelings toward him on account of his treatment of
Tad.

Aunt Louise wishes me to visit her in Montreal, and I have promised that I will do so—though when I could not say with any certainty. I am so glad to have met her and to think of my connection to her across so many miles. I feel as if I now have family that I might visit, for though Tad says I have many cousins on his side, they live an ocean's crossing away from
us.

Dr. Reid seemed anxious today; though he forbears to express it in my presence, I know that it unsettles him to hear us talk of our
departure.

I think I must close this. I am so tired from the day's events and desire only a deep and peaceful night's rest. I will think more on this, but nevertheless I must tell Tad of it in my own
time.

***

[Moisture damage for half a
page.]

We sat by the fire in a small parlor—there was a desk at one end, piled high with a confusion of papers and books, and more of these were stacked in a corner behind it. The room struck me as untidy in a mannish sort of way, for I was reminded of Dr. McTavish's library, and though it is dusted faithfully by Ethel, still it refuses a housekeeper's
touch.