Perdita (32 page)

Cape Prius—1898

September 5

I feel that I must break a long silence—for George has come back. Unaccountably, suddenly, he has
returned.

He arrived alone and has been here two days already, and I have yet to see him face-to-face. Dr. McTavish, I think, conspires to keep me from meeting him, and I do not dare to visit the Lodge, although Dr. McT. has been over there several times since yesterday and never once has asked me to accompany
him.

I can hardly bear this! Surely someone will tell me why he is here and what these long months away have yielded for
him.

September 6

I saw him at the Point this evening—just as the light was fading and he was only a black outline against the sky, but I knew that it was
he.

He was smoking and had his back turned to me. I went as close as I dared, right to the edge of the forest, and stood behind the trees watching
him.

Like an animal in the darkness, I watched him—without his seeing
me.

September 15

At last George and I have met, but I am afraid that it was ill-timed.

I came across him standing in the grove of cedars; he was smoking again, and I did not like the acrid smell of his cigar in a place that is to me so sacred, and so I think I must have frowned at him when I saw him standing there and showed my displeasure. Perhaps it is my fault, then, that our meeting took such an inauspicious
turn.

He extinguished his cigar immediately, and we stood silently for some seconds without looking directly at each
other.

“Well, Marged,” he finally said. “I am back again. Are you surprised to see
me?”

I said that I had heard he had gone to New York—and then I stopped, for I was unsure how to proceed with him, and yet I hated the false constraint that seemed to catch at both of us and hold us there so awkwardly in each other's
presence.

At last I could not bear it, and so I said, “George, no one has told me anything, and indeed I have no desire to intrude upon your privacy…but I hope that you are well, and that all is well with
you.”

He seemed relieved by my candor, and he came closer to me, searching my face for some sign of my estimation of him. I felt my own eyes grow teary, and he gently took my arm, and we started to walk back along the path, coming to a clearing at the edge of the Basin. I was keenly aware of his form beside me—as if after a terrible thirst, I had finally been granted a drink of water. We stopped there, to watch a boat come in and lay anchor to the windward. At length, George sat down upon a fallen log and began throwing stones into the water while I stood beside him, though not close to
him.

“I'm not going back to New York, Marged. I couldn't now even if I wanted to, but I do not want to.” He hurled a succession of stones into the Basin with some violence, and I discerned that something troubled him
excessively.

“What has happened, George?” I said it quietly and with a calm that surprised even myself. I took a place on the log a little distance away from him, and tucking my skirts up around me, I looked away from him so that he did not feel any
scrutiny.

“I've done a very miserable and dishonorable thing.” He said it savagely. “She didn't deserve it; of that I am
certain.”

“What did you do, George?” I exclaimed. And then, for I could not restrain myself, I whispered, “Did you marry
Caroline?”

He got up and moved a few paces away, shaking his
head.

“No,” he said, frowning at the horizon, his jaw clenched so tightly that I could see the muscles straining in his neck. “I did worse than that,” he said, and he kicked at the log contemptuously. “I practically left the bride standing at the altar. I couldn't go through with it, Marged. There were five hundred people invited. It must have been horrible for
her!”

I said nothing. How could I? I was ashamed that I felt somehow so jubilant, and yet I was mortified to think of
Caroline.

At last, I said, “What will you do now, George?”

“I am going to stay up here—and paint.” He said it quietly, still frowning at the horizon. “Any career I might have had in America is most certainly over. Caroline's father will see to that, I am sure.” He said it so bitterly. “McTavish is going to help me. He has a property not far from here, and I will set up
there.”

I don't know what made me think of it or what foolishness prompted me to utter it—but I thought of the money that Grandpere had given me, and I said to him that he could have it, if he
wished.

He turned to look at me then and said not a little scornfully, or so it seemed to me, “You wear your heart too much upon your sleeve, Marged.”

I leapt up, as if struck by lightning! Shame washed over me and then changed quickly into hot anger. For what had he thought I was proposing? In a flash and without thinking, I flew at him and struck him with all my might across his face—and then drew back, aghast at what I had done. He did not flinch, but stood there staring at me while my teeth began to chatter at the violence of my actions, and I felt that I might be sick there in front of
him.

“You wished for me to do that, did you not?” I cried. “Did you not wish for me to strike you? Have you not baited
me?”

I ran from him—as fast as I could, never stopping once to look back, and sobbing that he should use me so grossly for his own
expiation.

September 16

I am filled with remorse. I must find some way to make an apology to George. He came today and hovered about Dr. McTavish's rooms, but I would not leave my studio, though I heard him asking if I were
about.

And now I am so sorry, so very sorry that I struck him; had I been a little older and wiser, I might have foreseen the imprudence of my offer and how it might wound him. I think I must write him and tell him how sorry I am. I will say no more, and then there can be no
misunderstanding.

September 17

George came to me today. I was in the shed brushing Claude and removing the thick carpet of burs that he has managed to accumulate since yesterday. George thanked me for my note and said that it had been unnecessary, for the error had been all his own and he apologized to me. His tone was kind and gentle, and it reminded me so much of the old George that I felt a little of my own contrariness returning as he assumed his self-possession. I think I must have communicated this to Claude, for he yelped suddenly. George took the brush from me and began to comb him, and I moved off to one side while we
conversed.

I was more than a little agitated at first, but he seemed to wish to put me at my ease. He remarked upon Mother's wonderful progress, and soon I was telling him how she had fared during the journey home and then of my own reflections upon my time in the city. At length, he finished with Claude and moved away as if to leave, and all of a sudden, I asked him if he had received the letter that I had sent to him before he left for New York. He shook his head and said that he had not, and then he asked me what had been its
contents.

“It was of no consequence,” I replied, but my heart was in my throat as I said
it.

George asked me if I had kept a copy, but I looked away to avoid answering him, and then he said that he would very much like to have my letter and asked if I would give him it. I said nothing, neither agreeing nor disagreeing to his
proposal.

I think perhaps Grandpere may be correct, for sometimes I feel that I do indeed have a streak of perversity, for I am not sure if I quite like smooth sailing—and such a courteous and affable George. I don't know why, but somehow I feel as if I prefer the stormy
weather.

September 20

I had tea with the Stewarts today. I was almost afraid to do so, for Allan had warned me that his stepfather has been in a terrible mood and has been an absolute bear to George. But though he was distant, his manner was polite, and Dr. McTavish had a pleasant conversation with George about his plans to paint. Old Mr. Stewart did look black indeed during this portion of the afternoon, but thankfully he left, and the rest of our time there was quite pleasant. George and Allan came back with me to the cottage and stayed to visit—Allan eating almost all of Auntie's cookies, and she scolding him for it, but nevertheless
pleased.

As they were getting ready to depart, George took me aside and asked me again for my letter. Indeed, I had already prepared a copy, though I was still undecided about giving it to him. He pressed me gently for it—and I gave it to him! I hope that I shall not regret it; my cheeks are almost burning as I think of it, and yet I did not change a
word.

Perhaps after all I do like the quiet weather, for it is so agreeable to have George and Allan with us. Sometimes my time in the city seems as if it were a dream and all the places and people there seem as characters in a book that I read long ago and they have left only impressions upon
me.

At times I am a little sad thinking of Dr. Reid, but it is a quiet kind of sorrow. Dr. McT. has told me that he has gone to Montreal to visit a colleague for several weeks. There has been no communication between us. I am surprised by this. I wonder if he has forgotten about me. I think that I must write to him—lest he think me ungrateful for all his kind
attentions.

September 26

Beautiful night! This morning Uncle Gil said that he felt a storm in the air, but I do not care, for this is the most beautiful of all nights! And yet an ordinary night, too, for it began as any evening
might.

Allan and George came to visit us after supper, and we were seated so cozily around the fire, except Uncle Gil, who had the watch. I was playing a game of chess with Tad, and our match had gone on for almost an hour when they arrived. I was not a little pleased to think that I had kept Tad at bay. Truly it was difficult to know which of us had the upper hand, for both queens and our bishops were still in play—though he had taken both my rooks and I both his knights. Still, I thought that I might beat him, and so I took my turns cautiously and resolved to take no
risks.

Tad conversed with George and Allan as he played, but at length he grew exasperated with my caution, took his pipe from his mouth, and said, “What has happened to your game, child! Though you ponder each turn like a theologian, can you not see your next
move?”

Allan and George laughed heartily, and I looked up at Tad quizzically, for I had been keeping a careful eye upon his bishops and knew them to be the most wily of his players; too often have one or the other of them stolen a victory from me that I had thought
secure.

“Your queen, Marged!” he exclaimed finally. “Ever do you neglect your queen and stay her in a corner as if she were some precious piece and not your most powerful player. Look to her now. Can you not see
it?”

Allan and George came closer to inspect the board as I studied it carefully. At last I cried out—for I saw it all of a sudden and checkmated Tad with
dispatch.

“Well,” he grunted, “if you were blind, daughter, you could not have played a poorer game.” He said it in good humor, though there was but the slightest edge to his
tone.

“Why don't you play your queen, Marged?” Allan asked of
me.

“I don't know,” I replied. “Perhaps I am too afraid to lose
her—”

“No, Marged,” Tad interrupted, “you must not be afraid. She may forfeit a game now and then, but ever is her heart a stout one, and strong. Her master, the king, knows this.” And pointing to the board, he said, “Tomorrow she will take up her place faithfully and play the game with
all
her courage, but only if you will let
her.”

I looked up and met George's
eyes.

Tad was looking aside at Mother as she sat by the fire, and Auntie Alis had her head bent upon her sewing. Allan was moving the pieces on the board, checking to see if we had overlooked some escape for Tad's
king.

“It's checkmate all right,” he said gloomily, no doubt taking Tad's part in the
match.

Still George held my
gaze.

Tad rose and said that we would see them both to the gate, and fetching my shawl, he said for me to go ahead with Allan and wait for them, for first he would go to the Light with George to check upon Uncle Gil. Auntie rose, protesting that she might do so, but Tad silenced her with a look and took George's
arm.

Allan and I walked out toward the gate; we both shivered for the night had become cool, but the stars were out and we played an old game of ours and quizzed each other on the constellations. By and by, George came to us, but without Tad, and the three of us stood there, our heads thrown back, watching for shooting stars. All of a sudden, Allan saw a great horned owl glide across the night sky—an enormous bird, or so it seemed from the shadow that it cast upon us. He ran out into the night, chasing after it and urging us to
follow.

I stayed behind, just inside the gate with George. We both smiled a little, listening to Allan's cacophonous attempts to hail the owl—and then George turned to me and, taking my hand, told me quietly that he had read my letter. I nodded, but would not look at him, keeping my eyes upon the night sky. He asked me if I regretted giving it to him, and I shook my head and said that I would never regret writing that letter, for it belonged to him and was written—I wanted to say by my very soul, but I stopped, for I was overwhelmed with such strong emotion. George drew my hand to his lips, and we stood in silence for a few moments, just as we had done once before by Dr. McTavish's
fire.

Then he turned to me, and holding my face between his hands, he said that he loved me—that he had always loved me. But that there had been something in him—an obstacle in himself—that had prevented him from acknowledging it. He said that he had come to know it—fully know it—as soon as he had read my
letter.

“Could you ever forgive me, Marged?”

Again I nodded, but still I could not meet his
eyes.