The Beguiled

by Thomas Cullinan

  “Your what?”

  “My little snapping turtle. He won’t come out of his shell.”

  “I’m afraid that is not a proper subject for prayer,” said Miss Martha coldly. “Pray for your departed relatives and not sick reptiles. If there are no more proper petitions we shall close by asking for God’s continued help and blessing for tomorrow. May we all be kept from harm throughout this night.”

  “Amen!” said Mattie loudly. Mattie is always allowed to say the final Amen. I believe this has been the custom at our school for a number of years, although Miss Martha is always threatening to dispense with it because Mattie has the habit of shouting her Amens before Miss Martha is quite ready.

  “Amen,” I said to myself. “May Corporal McBurney also be kept from harm tonight.” I remember distinctly saying that to myself on that first night. I don’t know what in the world I thought might harm him but I said it anyway. However I don’t remember ever saying it on any night after that.

  Miss Martha and Miss Harriet went over to have another look at him before retiring. “He does seem better, sister,” Miss Harriet observed, quite subdued now.

  “He doesn’t seem good to me at all,” said Miss Martha.

  “He’s sleeping quietly.”

  “That’s weakness.”

  “His color is much better.”

  “That is fever.”

  “The bleeding has stopped.”

  “And the leg is beginning to swell. Do you see? Here and here. . . .”

  “That could be from the tightness of the bandage, couldn’t it?” asked Miss Harriet hopefully. “I’m sure his breathing is much more regular than before.”

  “Possibly,” Miss Martha conceded grudgingly. “In any case there is nothing more we can do at the moment. Mattie, you may sleep in here tonight. Get your blankets and fix yourself a bed on the other settee. If he awakens during the night and attempts to move, summon me at once.”

  “And me,” said Miss Harriet. “You must notify me too, Mattie. It’s good of you to be so concerned about the boy, Martha.”

  “It’s not alone the boy,” said her sister flatly. “It’s the whole house that concerns me. It’s true I’ve done my best today to aid his recovery, but I shall sleep tonight with Father’s pistol on the table beside my bed.”

  Well I don’t know whether this was said for Corporal McBurney’s benefit or not, but if he heard he gave no sign. If Miss Martha could fire that old flintlock pistol she certainly was better than any of us. It used to be kept in a case in the library together with a supply of powder and ball and Marie had taken it into the garden one afternoon during Miss Martha’s absence to show us how her father had once won a duel in Baton Rouge. However Marie could not manage to fire the thing and neither could any of the rest of us, our military expert Emily included. Shortly after that episode Miss Martha removed the pistol to her own room.

  “Come along, girls, come along,” Miss Martha ordered us. She waited, holding the lamp, in the doorway until we had all filed out and then she preceded us up the stairs in the usual fashion, with Miss Harriet and her candle bringing up the rear to prevent any straggling. Thus ended the first day of Corporal McBurney’s residence at our school.

  Amelia Dabney

  I awakened early on the next morning as is my custom. I am usually the first of the students to arise in this school. Miss Harriet says it is not ladylike or good for the complexion, since it encourages wrinkles, to be out of bed before eight and although Miss Martha doesn’t worry much about the complexion of her pupils, she does not insist that anyone arise before that time. However I have never been able to sleep very long after the sky begins to lighten and on that particular morning—the day after Corporal McBurney came—I was up and dressed especially early.

  I tiptoed out of the room, very carefully so as not to disturb Marie, and came down the stairs, half expecting to find that either yesterday had been a dream and there had never been a Corporal McBurney or that he had been here but had become frightened of us and had stolen away during the night. But he hadn’t.

  “Good morning,” he said, opening his blue eyes and then winking one solemnly at me. “It is morning I take it.”

  “Yes, about six o’clock, I think.”

  “I thought as much from the larks I heard singing out there in the back.”

  “Do you like birds?” I had been sure from the first he would.

  “Love them. Anything wild I love . . . anything wild and free.”

  “Those aren’t larks, I think. I believe I hear some robins and possibly some thrush.”

  “Oh. Well you must have a different sort of lark here than from what we have in Ireland. Those birds I hear trilling and twittering away out there now sound very much like Irish larks.”

  “That’s very possible,” I said. “It may be some variety of the species we don’t have here. I wonder if you would mind describing that Irish lark to me—the coloring and so forth—and the nest, if you’re familiar with it—and the eggs.”

  “I will,” he said, “with the greatest of pleasure . . . when I feel a bit stronger. There’s nothing I enjoy more, when I’m feelin up to it, than a good old chat about the birds.”

  “You do remember me don’t you?” I asked him, a bit worried.

  “But how could I forget you? You’re the angel who saved my life.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m sure I don’t exactly deserve that much credit. I only brought you here and then Miss Martha attended to your leg. If anyone saved your life, I guess you might say that she did.”

  “She’s the older one with the look of authority about her?”

  “Yes. Do you remember seeing her?”

  “Vaguely,” he said. “I also have a vague recollection of a number of others . . . very attractive young ladies they were too.”

  “Everybody in the house was here. We were all terribly worried about you.”

  “Oh isn’t it wonderful,” he sighed, “to have such charming people takin an interest in an old rough sort like myself.”

  “Corporal McBurney. . . .”

  “Johnny.”

  “Johnny, can you remember my coming in here last night around dinner time and talking to you.”

  “It seems like somebody did.”

  “What I said to you was that if you were ever in any trouble or danger here and needed to escape, you should come to me and I would help you.”

  “What sort of trouble would I be gettin into here? I’m a peaceable man, darlin. . . .”

  “Amelia. . . .”

  “To be sure, Amelia. Darlin Amelia, I intend to conduct myself in a quiet and gentlemanly manner, so there couldn’t possibly be any trouble, and as for danger—what sort of danger would there be to me in a houseful of charmin and well bred young ladies. You did say there were no men here, didn’t you? Well then I’ll be as safe here as in my old mother’s arms, as long as somebody doesn’t take the notion to go off and notify the Confeds of my presence—or worse, the Yankees.”

  “You don’t want the Yankees to know you’re here either?”

  “Why would I want those New York toughs and Dutch farmers to hear of this place, the way they’d be comin in here pesterin and annoyin you and maybe even committin worse depredations. When my leg is better, I suppose I’ll have to rejoin ’em, but until that day, if anybody comes lookin for me, you can say you never heard of me.”

  “Well Miss Martha will be very glad to learn that you have that attitude, I’m sure. I’m certain that will make her feel much more sympathetic toward you. And it may take a while, don’t you think, Johnny, before your wound is better.”

  “When I look at you, I hope it’s years, Amelia.” He winked again so I knew he was only teasing me.

  “How does your leg feel now? Is there much pain?”

  “I can tolerate it.”

 
“I only wish we had some medicine we could give you to relieve it.”

  “That’s very good of you. If you had a drop of spirits it might help.”

  “Let’s see,” I said. “Miss Harriet gave you some brandy yesterday and I think she put the bottle back in this cabinet.”

  “It isn’t there now,” he said before I could open the wine cabinet. “I asked the darky woman about it a while ago. She said it was gone.”

  “I guess Miss Martha must have taken it.”

  “She didn’t look like a drinking woman, as I remember her.”

  “Oh she wouldn’t have taken it for herself,” I said. “If she removed the brandy from the cabinet, it would have been to prevent Miss Harriet from getting it.”

  “Oh ho.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I really shouldn’t gossip about things like that.”

  “Information exchanged between friends isn’t gossip, my dear. I’ll need to know everything I can about these people if I’m to spend some time here—in order to fit in as quiet and unobtrusively as possible, don’t you see? In order not to make any false steps in the parade.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “Well you can always call on me for anything you want to know, Johnny. Except there are other students who are better informed than I am. My roommate, Marie, for example, knows just about everything that goes on in this place.”

  “Well, I’ll have to get in touch with Marie then, won’t I?”

  “That won’t be difficult. She’ll certainly be in to see you some time this morning. I want to warn you however, that although Marie is very nice, she is a very shrewd person. Even though she is the youngest, she may be the most shrewd person here. It’s almost impossible to deceive her about anything.”

  “Oh,” said Johnny. “I hope I don’t ever deceive anybody here. I hadn’t planned to do anything like that.”

  “I know that,” I declared, “but all the same I thought I’d better tell you about Marie. Now perhaps, when Miss Martha comes downstairs, I can ask her to bring you some brandy.”

  “Don’t bother yourself. I’ll manage without it.”

  “Are you comfortable otherwise? Did Mattie take good care of you during the night?”

  “Is that the old darky? Sure she’s not the most friendly chambermaid in the world but she attended to my needs quite satisfactorily. Then she brought me a bowl of soup this morning. Someone else brought me a bit of soup last night as I recall.”

  “That was Edwina Morrow.”

  “A black-haired girl—very pretty?”

  “Yes.” I hesitated and then decided it was really not jealousy, but a sincere interest in his welfare. “You must be very careful of Edwina too—more careful than with anyone else. She can be quite mean, if she ever decides she doesn’t like you.”

  “Then I must try not to give her any reason to dislike me, mustn’t I? As a matter of fact, I hope nobody in this house dislikes me, Amelia, I’m really not the worst sort in the world, you know.” His voice was growing weaker now and he seemed on the verge of dozing off again.

  “I’m positive you are a very good sort, Johnny,” I told him. “And I’m sure that everyone in this house will agree with me.”

  “Ah that’s grand . . . that’s what I need to get my health back. The confidence o’ me friends . . . the knowin that they’ll stick by me through good times and bad . . . through fair weather an’ foul . . . through sunshine . . . and storm. . . .”

  I thought he was asleep and had started to tiptoe off but he called me back.

  “Wait a bit, dear little Amelia, ’til I tell you about a strange bird . . . the like o’ which I know you’ve never seen . . . in your young life.”

  “What kind of a bird is it?”

  “A very small one . . . very fragile . . . but with great determination . . . and with more strength than you might suppose from looking at it . . . if you ever got close enough to one to see it at all. It’s a very rare bird and very shy, and it can only be found in the most remote and inaccessible parts of the world. On high mountains you sometimes see it . . . or in the heart of dark forests . . . or sometimes floatin on the wind above the most untraveled ocean. . . .”

  “What is its natural habitat?”

  “The entire earth, I guess . . . for it has no real home. Nobody knows where it comes from since it’s almost always on the wing. It flies from dawn to sunset, and since it can travel at such great speed, it often follows the sun around the world. It never stops anywhere long enough to build a nest . . . or raise its young. I guess that’s why its kind is dying out. One of these days there won’t be any of the species left. . . .”

  “My goodness,” I said, “that certainly is a strange bird. What’s it looking for, do you suppose?”

  “That’s the great mystery.”

  “What is this bird called?”

  “I don’t know what it’s proper name is . . . but I call it the lonely bird. . . .”

  I waited but he said no more. This time he evidently was asleep.

  “Whyn’t you let that poor boy alone?” said Mattie from the doorway. “You gotta get up before daylight to pester him?”

  “He says the most interesting things, Mattie. He’s just told me about the most amazing bird.”

  “I think he’s an amazin bird hisself, never mind the kind he tells you about.”

  “What sort of a bird would you say he was, Mattie?” Mattie is a very good judge of people, white or colored, although sometimes her first impressions are swayed one way or the other by a person’s background. Therefore it wasn’t to be expected that she’d feel favorable immediately about Corporal McBurney.

  “I’d say he was a crow, an old big-mouth crow. Crows like to talk all the time and strut around and they take a fancy to anything bright and shiny.”

  “Well there’s nothing wrong in that,” I replied. “There are plenty of people here who are fond of talking, and I’m sure that Corporal McBurney is no more taken in by appearances than you are. As for strutting, I fail to see how anyone can strut when he’s lying on his back.”

  “He can strut without movin a hair. I know what that boy is thinkin lyin there. He’s thinkin he’s the only rooster in the yard and the coop is filled with fat young hens.”

  “Is it so wrong for him to think that? From a biological point of view that seems rather natural.”

  “I declare to the Lord,” said Mattie, “if Miss Martha heard you say that you wouldn’t get no meals for a week. And if your own Mama heard you, she’d likely smack your face.”

  “But is it wrong or not?”

  “It ain’t wrong, I suppose, if he don’t go no farther than thinkin. And speakin of talkin too much, it seems to me you got more to say since this Yankee come in this house than you ever had before all the while you been here. Used to be you never spoke ’less somebody ask you a question. Now you’re expressin biological opinions all over the place. Now get outside and help me with this hoein.”

  “He really is very nice, Mattie,” I said following her out to the kitchen. “He says he wants nothing more than that everybody likes him.”

  “Oh I know that. He’ll do his best to make that happen. You know what he told me a while ago? He said when the Yankees win the war he would see to it personally that Mister Lincoln made me the head of this school.”

  Well we both had to laugh at that. Mattie is a dear old soul and very intelligent too, and she can appreciate a joke as well as anyone else.

  “I’ll bet my breakfast that Johnny was winking when he said that,” I told her.

  “He winked all right,” she conceded, “but he was watchin me to see how I was gonna take it before he winked.”

  “Well, Mattie,” I said as I took my sunbonnet from the kitchen peg where we keep them, “if the Yankees do win the war, you just start your own school and I will enroll in it. Ho
wever you must promise me you’ll let me devote my entire time to the study of nature.”

  “You’ll get all the nature study you need in that pea patch. You just move on out there now and study all them bugs you find on the vines.”

  Before we went out however, Mattie gave me a cup of acorn coffee—which I believe I prefer to the real kind, although no one else here feels that way—and a biscuit she had saved for me from the previous night’s dinner. Since I am always the first pupil to begin her daily gardening chore—we are all expected to do a certain amount of it before breakfast—Mattie usually has a little treat for me.

  As I had told McBurney on the way from the woods, sometimes I think that Mattie is the dearest person in this school. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if she is the most honest and unselfish person too. It occurred to me that I should also have told McBurney to place his complete trust in Mattie and I resolved to do so at the next opportunity.

  We went out to the garden then. I am always happy working in the garden in the early morning, but as I recall I was happier on that morning than I had been in a very long time.

  Martha Farnsworth

  Our visitor seemed much improved on the second day. He was awake and smiled quite cheerfully when I went in shortly after eight o’clock to have a look at him.

  Several of the girls had crowded around the door and were staring in at him with much tittering and giggling. I gathered that he in his turn might have been waving or gesticulating to them, but if so he ceased when I entered. The girls made way for me and then advanced behind me, but at a discreet distance.

  “Go back,” I told them sharply. “Go on about your business. You have work to do in the garden . . . get on with it.”

  “Please, Miss Martha,” said Alice Simms. “Shall we have classes in here this morning?”

  “No, we shall not. The classes which would normally convene in here—French and History of England I think—will meet instead in the library.”

  “What about the music class, Miss Martha?” asked Marie. “Will you move the harpsichord into the library?”