“That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said. He needs to get his rest. He doesn’t need little children bothering him.”
At least I had progressed to being merely a little child now, which, coming from Edwina, was practically a compliment.
“Well, goodnight, Edwina,” I said, walking slowly out of the room.
“Good riddance,” she said, watching me.
I went only part way up the stairs and then paused and waited there for a moment. Then I came down again as quietly as possible and returned to the living room doorway. I don’t really like to spy on people but I had to make sure of this situation, since Corporal McBurney was concerned.
Sure enough Edwina was over by his side trying to feed him soup. I wanted to call out because I was mortally afraid she would choke him, but on the other hand I did appreciate her taking an interest in him and I was also afraid that if I were to trap her in this generous act, she might turn her back on him forever. And right now, I decided, Corporal McBurney needs every friend he can get in this house.
Surprisingly enough, some of the soup seemed to be staying down. Most of it was dribbling over his chin and every time that happened Edwina would very patiently take the spoon away and ever so gently wipe his chin with her handkerchief. I noticed it was a different handkerchief than the one she had told us earlier was of Chinese silk. Well, she was certainly donating a lot of handkerchiefs to the cause of Corporal McBurney. And Corporal McBurney was very definitely swallowing some of that potato and leek soup.
“Well,” I thought, “if this is what you’re really like, Edwina Morrow, you can call me any names you please and I won’t mind one bit. Also I will keep your secret, if that’s the way you want it. After all, the only important thing now is that Corporal McBurney gets well.”
Therefore, being satisfied that my Yankee soldier was in good hands, at least for the time being, I came away from the doorway and went back up the stairs to the room I share with Marie Deveraux.
Harriet Farnsworth
After the dinner dishes had been cleared away, I decided it would be only charitable to take a bit of food upstairs to Amelia Dabney and Marie Deveraux who had been sent to their room in disgrace. My sister would disapprove of my actions, I’m sure, and I know she is well within her rights in disciplining these girls for their impertinent conduct, but an entire night is a long time for a growing child to go without nourishment and the Lord knows they don’t get as much of it as they should anyway in these days of shortage.
With the help of our good Mattie, I managed to garner a part of a loaf of bread, some peas and some salad greens. A bowl full of these items, together with a bit of bacon I had saved from my own plate, I thought might tide the two young sinners over until morning. They accepted my gifts in their usual off-handed manner—like tribute brought to royalty rather than dole to the needy.
“Eat quickly, girls,” I told them, “and then out with your light and into bed with you before Miss Martha comes by on her rounds.”
“We can handle everything all right, Miss Harriet,” said Marie casually as she nibbled at her food. “We have a system in this room whereby we can allow Miss Martha to come all the way up the stairs and even start down the hall, and then we can blow out our candle in an instant and be in bed looking as though we had been asleep for hours before Miss Martha reaches our door. Our main defense in this system is the fact that Amelia here has very good ears and can hear the faintest movement from anywhere in the house.”
“It doesn’t seem a very honest system to me,” I said. “Also candles wasted now may be regretted at a later time when you really need them.”
“We have extra ones,” said that child who never lacks an answer. “Amelia has brought a store of beeswax from the woods and we’ve made our own.”
“Save some of the bread for me please, Marie,” said Amelia, picking at her greens.
“There’s plenty for both of you,” I assured her. “You can share it equally.”
“She doesn’t want it for herself,” Marie explained. “It’s for her turtle. She says her turtle’s ailing and she forgot to bring him any flies today because of the trouble with McBurney.”
“I see,” I said, wanting to see but finding it rather difficult. “Well, God made all of us . . . you and I and Mister McBurney . . . and Amelia’s turtle.”
“Do animals go to heaven when they die?” asked Amelia, turning that elfin little face to me.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I believe God permits them to have their happiness in this life.”
“What about the animals that are dying in the woods tonight?”
“Well,” I said, “first of all we’ve not sure they’re dying, are we? Perhaps they’re all escaping the fire. And even if a few are trapped . . . I’m sure they’re the old ones who are ready to pass on anyway. And I’m sure God makes certain that it happens painlessly.”
“What about us?” Marie asked. “Don’t we ever get our happiness in this life?”
“Not very many people do.”
“I intend to have mine,” Marie said. “I’m not at all sure I’ll care much for heaven, especially if they have a lot of rules and regulations, so I think I’ll take a bit of mine on earth.”
“You will be very lucky then, if you accomplish it,” I said. “You are more fortunate now than Amelia. She has already had great unhappiness in the loss of her two brothers.”
“Well,” said Marie, “my father is in the army too and so is my brother Louis, and they could both be dead for all I know—the way the mail is nowadays. Have you ever been truly happy, Miss Harriet?”
“Yes, once . . . a long time ago . . . but it didn’t last very long.”
“What caused it to end?” Amelia wanted to know.
“Reason and common sense,” I said. It is difficult to know how far to go with children such as these. One wants to be—must be—kind to them and yet there is always the suspicion that they know more than they ask. I often think they know the answers and are only interested in your reaction to the questions.
“Is Corporal McBurney happy, do you think?” asked Amelia now.
“If he isn’t, and he recovers, we must try to make his stay here as pleasant as we can. Although I should think the mere fact of his being out of the war for a while would make him quite happy.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Amelia thoughtfully. “He said as much today.”
“What was your happiness like when you experienced it long ago, Miss Harriet?” asked Marie, the chief inquisitor.
“Very nice.”
“Do you think it will ever come to you again?”
“I no longer count on it.”
“Would you be glad if it did?”
“I . . . yes, I suppose I would . . . but it could not be the same, because you see the knowledge of unhappiness makes it impossible to ever more experience unalloyed bliss. That’s only possible in a state of innocence.”
Innocence? Yes, they seemed completely innocent—watching me quietly—Amelia with her sad brown eyes and Marie with her guileless blue ones.
“Scrub your faces and your teeth and brush your hair now, both of you. One hundred vigorous strokes each, so that when you are beautiful young ladies your hair will glisten and shine as you are whirled around the floor at your first ball.”
“Did your hair glisten at your first ball, Miss Harriet?” Marie inquired.
“It did, yes. It was jet black and shining—very much like Miss Edwina Morrow’s hair now. I wore it in a chignon . . . with a gold clip, I remember. . . .”
“Who escorted you to your first ball?” asked Amelia.
“My brother.”
“He’s dead too, isn’t he?” said Marie.
“Miss Martha believes so.”
“But you don’t?” wondered Amelia.
“I don’t think ab
out it.”
“Your hair has a gray streak in it now,” said Amelia. “Is that from sorrow or disappointment?”
“More likely old age,” I said.
“Why do you have gray in your hair?” inquired Marie. “While Miss Martha who is older has none.”
“Perhaps you had better ask Miss Martha that,” I said. “Now do as I have told you, then say your prayers and get to bed.”
“I’m not much interested in balls myself,” declared Marie. “I know I shall never be a raving beauty, so I feel it is all a great waste of time.”
“I’m not very interested in balls either,” Amelia said, “unless maybe I could attend one sometime with Corporal McBurney. Do you think he would accompany me to some such affair, Miss Harriet . . . after the war is over, of course.”
“He might be very happy to do so,” I said, “but I suggest you don’t mention it to him right now.”
On that note I closed their door and came back downstairs to the living room. The lamp was still lit on the table by the settee and our patient was still unconscious. Seated in a chair drawn up beside him now was Edwina Morrow of the vixenish disposition and the hair of my youth. She looked up defensively but without comment as I approached. Corporal McBurney still seemed a long way from attending any balls with young Amelia.
“Has he come around at all?” I whispered to Edwina.
“He opened his eyes once,” she said, “and his lips have moved several times as though he was trying to speak.”
“Well, that’s something,” I said. “Perhaps by morning he’ll be much better. You may go to your room now, Edwina, and I’ll sit with him for a while.”
“I don’t mind staying.” She stated it flatly and waited for my protest.
“I know you don’t dear, but you need your rest. It’s really very good of you to be so considerate of the young man. I’m sure he’ll be most grateful when he recovers.”
“Do you think he will recover, Miss Harriet?” she asked.
“He seems to be making progress. We can only pray that he continues to do so.”
“I don’t set much store by prayer,” she said. “I don’t recall ever getting anything through prayer.”
“Did you ever pray for anything?”
“Once—long ago. Did you ever pray for anything, Miss Harriet?”
“Why certainly,” I said.
“And was your prayer answered?”
Should I tell the truth? No, it wasn’t granted. In fact I haven’t really prayed for years. I just go through the motions to keep my sister happy and to maintain the image of a devout teacher in a Christian school. I fear God—as I fear many things—but I don’t pray to Him. Because I know the thing I would ask for, if I did pray, would not be granted. Indeed, I suppose if I were God, I would not grant it either.
“They say that no prayers are ever wasted,” I said circumspectly. “If you don’t always get what you pray for, sometimes you get something better.”
“If we prayed that the Yankee might live, and he died, would that be something better?”
I had been too quick with my reassessment. Edwina was being her usual difficult self. “I don’t see how—and please don’t ask me, dear—but I suppose it could be.”
“Oh I can see how it could be.” She smiled at my impatience. “If what happens to you while you are living is bad enough, then you are better off dead . . . don’t you agree? In any case I don’t intend to pray for this Yankee. I’m content to let nature take its course—since I’m sure that’s what’s bound to happen anyway.”
“As you please, my dear.”
“He looks something like my father,” she went on unexpectedly. “Did you ever see my father, Miss Harriet? He’s quite a handsome man.”
“I’m afraid I’ve never had that pleasure,” I said. She was quite aware that I knew Mister Morrow had never visited the school, but if she wanted to pretend that he had been here on some occasion and that I had unfortunately missed him—well, it cost me nothing to tolerate her sad little whim.
“You must take after your mother then,” I remarked and meant it well—meant nothing at all, in fact, beyond an attempt to introduce a topic which would not result in argument. “I assume your father must be of fair complexion.”
“No, he is not. My father is dark—darker even than I,” Edwina said quickly. “I only meant that this boy resembles him in feature.”
“Well then, your mother must be most attractive, and you must have features like her, since you don’t look anything like this young man.”
“Why must you pursue this point, Miss Harriet? Why must you harp on such a trivial matter!”
“I’m sorry, dear. I’ve forgotten, if I ever knew—is your mother still alive?”
“Certainly, she’s alive!”
“Please. . . .” I said, “I didn’t mean to upset you, child.”
“I’m not your child! Stop acting so ridiculous, Miss Harriet!”
“But it was you,” I said, befuddled, and then realized there was nothing I could say. Once again I had learned the folly of trying to be nice to Edwina Morrow.
“You may go to your room . . . at once, Edwina.”
“Yes ma’am.” She gave me a mocking little curtsy.
“Oh please . . .” I said. It’s the word I seem to use most often, but I find I just cannot be severe with anyone for very long, even Edwina. She did look like such a lonely little girl as she turned away. “Please wait a moment, Edwina.”
“Yes ma’am?”
“How old are you, Edwina?”
“It’s in Miss Martha’s enrollment book.”
“I don’t have that with me at the moment.”
“I’m sixteen.”
“Almost seventeen?”
“Not quite seventeen.”
“It’s strange how elastic ages are,” I said, amused. “If I were to ask Marie—who is ten, I think—the same question, she would surely answer ‘Eleven,’ meaning that she was in her eleventh year, but advancing herself all the same. Would you like to remain sixteen, Edwina?”
“I have no preference.”
“You are the oldest girl here, I think.”
“Possibly . . . but only a few months older than Emily. This again is very trivial conversation, Miss Harriet.”
“I know,” I said. “I just wanted to—well, send you away less abruptly.”
“I accept your apology.”
“I’m not apologizing, Miss!” I’m afraid I shouted, angry again.
“Yes ma’am. May I go as you have suggested?” Now I would have sworn she was deliberately baiting me.
“What would you like to do, Edwina? I’ll leave it up to you. If you would rather stay in here for a while, you may do so.”
“Alone?”
“Well, with Corporal McBurney. And I thought I might take advantage of the lamp to do some sewing.”
“I think now I’d prefer to retire, Miss Harriet.”
“All right,” I said, as gently as I could. “Just one more thing—and this is not trivial—at least to me, it isn’t. I was reminded tonight that your hair is almost exactly the shade and texture that mine was when I was your age, or at least I like to think now that it was.”
She stood there quietly for a moment, seeking the snare in the compliment, I suppose, and then finally decided if it was there, it was not a dangerous one. “Thank you, Miss Harriet,” she said quite graciously.
“You are a very attractive young lady, Edwina. You should be very happy to be growing up. You are without any doubt the most attractive young lady we have had in this school for a very long time.”
“Thank you again,” she said, with no malice at all in it now. “It doesn’t really make any difference to me, but it’s very kind of you.” She smiled wanly—one of the few times I have ever seen Edwina smile
—turned to go, then paused. “If I can help with the nursing of the Yankee, I would be obliged if you’d ask me. You may have noticed my turning a bit faint here this afternoon, but that was due to the severe headache I’ve had all day.”
“I assumed it was something of the sort, Edwina. And we shall certainly call on you as soon as help is needed.”
She smiled again and left the room, passing and ignoring old Mattie in the doorway. Mattie watched somberly as Edwina went up the stairs, then she came over to me.
“I’ve just done something that makes me feel good,” I announced. “I have turned away wrath with a compliment. I’ve just told that little lady how good-looking I thought she was.”
“Oh she’s good-lookin all right,” Mattie agreed. It showed the dear soul’s inherent humanity, since she has always had more difficulty with Edwina than with any other student in the school.
“She’s sometimes an extremely vexatious young person,” I said, “but I have hopes now that kindness will eventually win her over.”
“Kindness won’t rub out her troubles,” said Mattie.
“Well I know she’s unhappy over her family situation. She and Alice Simms are somewhat alike in that respect. Alice is looking for her father and Edwina is looking for her mother.”
“I don’t think she’s lookin for her mother,” Mattie said.
“I meant it figuratively. I don’t know exactly what the situation is but I gather that her parents are not living together. And of course she doesn’t see much of her father either. He has never come to visit her and she’s never been home since she’s been with us. I must say he keeps her well supplied with money, although that’s strange too, since she never seems to get any mail from him.”
“She brought the money with her,” Mattie asserted. “She keeps it hid in her room and in other places around the house. Leastways she did. She might not have much of it left anymore.”
“Perhaps that’s bothering her too, if her money’s running out.”
“It could be part of it, but it ain’t the big part.”
“All right,” I said, humoring her. “Give us your solution, Mattie. What is the chief cause of Edwina’s misery?”
The Beguiled Page 9
