“And Miss Harriet’s dancing class, which is scheduled for this afternoon,” said Edwina Morrow. “There’s hardly room for dancing in the library.”
“We’ll cross those bridges when we come to them,” I informed my charges. “If necessary we can postpone the music lessons and as for Miss Harriet’s instruction in the dance, I think we can dispense with that for the time being anyway. Now move along, all of you, to your work in the garden.”
They went, but unwillingly, with more tittering and whispering and staring over their shoulders. It was evident that we were going to have our problems with this young man in the house.
“I’m disrupting your place here . . . that’s plain, isn’t it, ma’am,” said the gentleman in question when I turned back to him.
“Indeed you are,” I told him.
“You don’t mince words, ma’am. You speak right up. I like that.”
“Do you indeed,” said I. “And do you think it makes a great difference to me whether you like it or not?”
“I’m sure my opinion means nothing to you at all, ma’am. I’m not looking for your approbation.”
“Are you not. What are you looking for then?”
“Whatever care you can spare me. You’ve given me plenty now and I’m most appreciative. I don’t know how I can ever repay you, except, of course, by recovering my health as rapidly as possible and quitting your company. That was the answer that just popped into your mind now, wasn’t it, ma’am?”
As a matter of fact it was. The fellow had a genuine facility for anticipating your thoughts.
“Aren’t you afraid that I will hand you over to our soldiers?” I asked him.
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t say that you won’t do it, but very likely worse things could happen to me. Of course I don’t relish the prospect of spending the next few months in Libbey Prison or Andersonville, but it’s better than being dead. And that’s what I would be, if you hadn’t helped me.”
“You can’t be certain of that. Even if the girl hadn’t brought you here, very likely your own men would have found you. Or even if you had been taken prisoner, some of our surgeons would have attended to you.”
“From what I hear, your surgeons have more work than they can keep up with nowadays. And our own sawbones don’t have it much better. Anyway your ministrations are much to be preferred to whatever care I would have gotten in a hospital tent. Any army doctor would’ve whacked the leg off and had done with it.”
“And you wouldn’t like that.”
“Would you? To be spendin the rest of my life as half a man . . . hobblin around on some old stick . . . unable to earn honest wages and dependin on alms and charity most like. No ma’am, I’ve seen what goes on in those hospital tents and I’ll tell you I’m very glad to be where I am. For you must understand, ma’am, that I’ve always made more use of my legs than most fellas my age. I was always a great one for runnin and jumpin and hoppin and leapin. And dancin the clock around too. I heard you mention dancing classes a bit ago. Why I could instruct your pupils in any kind of dance you could mention . . . Irish, English, American . . . reels, waltzes, polkas, anything at all. Let me tell you, ma’am, I can wear out the arm of any fiddler in the world with my legs!”
It was hard to dislike him. He had such an open friendly look about him, that even when you knew for a positive fact that there was guile behind his innocence, it was difficult to think of it as anything but a boyish trick.
And the guile was there, no doubt about it. Whatever Corporal John McBurney said, you had to ask yourself—is this the way Corporal McBurney really feels?—or is this the way he wants you to think he feels?—or is he even more clever than you suppose and is allowing the edges of the trick to show, hoping that when you see it, it will make you feel superior to him in cleverness. And you’re really not. Or at least he thinks you’re not. Because what he really wants is your misjudgment of him.
How deep do the layers of deception go, I wondered one day. But not that second day. On that morning I found myself—at least for the moment—beginning to enjoy the company of young Corporal McBurney. I had no intention of allowing him to stay, of course, once he was able to move about. And I likewise had no intention of permitting him any commerce with our students.
“Well I’m not sure that a radical operation wouldn’t have been the best medical procedure in the long run,” I told him. I uncovered his leg and prodded the flesh gently above the bandage. “I’m sure your army surgeons know more than I do about these things. Although the condition of your leg doesn’t seem to be any worse than before. Is there any feeling in it?”
“Enough.”
“Pray that it continues to pain you. When numbness sets in, as I understand it, it is an indication that the member has begun to putrify.”
“That won’t happen. The way it feels now, I’d swear you were cookin it for your dinner.”
“We don’t eat Yankees here,” said I. “We cure them, and in the process hope to civilize them, and then send them on their way. The pain should lessen after a bit. The important thing is that the stitches hold and that we keep all infection out of the wound. That means that you must not attempt to walk on it. You must not move at all, except with help, when I am with you or when Mattie is here. Do you understand that?”
“Perfectly.”
“If the pain is too great, I might bring you a small glass of wine. I understand you were given some of my brandy yesterday—in fact quite a lot of it.”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much about yesterday.”
“I can believe that. If you had as much of the brandy as my sister claims, I wonder that you remember anything. At any rate that bottle is empty but there is a bit of my father’s wine left in our cellars. I’ll send Mattie down for some in a little while.”
“Oh don’t bother, ma’am.”
“All right. Just as you say.”
I turned away, smiling to myself. I was sure I knew my man and that he’d change his mind before he lost his chance. However when I had moved off a step or two and looked around, the young devil had closed his eyes and was feigning drowsiness.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a temperance man,” I remarked.
“Ma’am?”
“I have always heard that an Irishman will drink anything.”
“So he will. Or at least almost anything. On the proper occasion.”
“Mister,” I thought, “if you want my wine, you’ll ask for it.”
He opened one eye at me then and grinned, conceding me my small triumph.
“And this does seem like a good occasion, come to think of it. I’d dearly love a sip of your wine, ma’am. I’ve no great fancy for the grape—the juice o’ the grain is more to my likin—but I’m sure whatever stock you have here is excellent.”
“It isn’t being offered for your pleasure, but only your comfort,” I said coldly.
“To be sure. Sometimes they go together though.”
“I must remind you, Corporal McBurney, that you are not our guest but a somewhat unwelcome visitor. We don’t propose to entertain you here.”
“I wouldn’t expect it, ma’am . . . in times like these. Although you’ll find I’m easily amused.”
He grinned again and looked beyond me. I turned and found Edwina Morrow in the doorway.
“You were sent to do your gardening, Miss,” I told her.
“Yes ma’am. I’ve finished the hoeing in my row.”
“You must have worked at a remarkable pace then,” I said. “What is it you want here?”
“Nothing important. I just wondered if there was anything I could do.”
There was a low chuckle from the boy on the settee. “Mister,” I thought grimly, “if you say one word, you’ll find yourself out on the edge of the road before noon.” But he said nothing. He was lying back, hi
s eyes closed again, still grinning.
“There is nothing you can do here,” I informed Edwina. “Now I want you girls to remain out of this room for the time being. You have enough school and other work to keep you well occupied without interfering with this sick man.”
“I didn’t intend to interfere. I only thought to help with the nursing.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “The adults in the school can take care of it.”
“But young ladies my age are usually considered adults, or at least that is what Miss Harriet is always telling me.” She started to withdraw, then paused. “I really did only want to be of service.”
“And when have you before, Miss?” I said to myself. And then felt a twinge of remorse. If the girl really wanted to do something unselfish for once in her life, it did seem a shame to refuse her the opportunity. However without much reflection I decided I had more to worry about than whether or not Edwina was to be allowed to practice charity even—and on second thought it seemed most unlikely—if she were sincere.
Edwina was hardly gone before another one of the Corporal’s well-wishers appeared. Alice Simms was back this time and of course that was to be expected. She could hardly have been the offspring of her mother otherwise.
“Please, Miss Martha,” said that least-innocent one, as innocently as only someone very practiced could be. “Shall we have our breakfast in here instead of in the dining room? Miss Harriet wants to know.”
“Why in the world would we have our breakfast in here?”
“Well since Corporal McBurney is unable to leave his bed this morning, Miss Harriet thought it would be nice if we all had our breakfast in here together.”
There was another low chuckle from the settee.
“Did you say something, Mister?” I asked, wheeling swiftly.
“No ma’am,” said he, and with no smile this time. He knew just about how far I could be pushed.
“It is well for you that you did not,” I said. “And, Miss Alice, you may tell Miss Harriet that we will have our breakfast in the dining room as usual and that this room is out of bounds to students until further orders. Is that clear?”
“Yes ma’am, quite clear,” said she with an insolent little curtsy. Then looked beyond me to smile conspiratorially at McBurney and slipped away before I could reprove her for her impudence.
I turned back to him again and stood there watching him for quite some time. He was expressionless now, his eyes closed again, but I knew he had not fallen asleep.
After a while he sighed. “Will ye have a deadline like at the prison camps? You could mark it off there in the doorway. Then you can stand in here yourself on guard.”
“Don’t be flippant with me, Mister. It could prove quite unpleasant for you.”
“I’d take my chances on that. You don’t seem the sort to act out of anger or petty irritation.” He paused again. “It’s not my fault, is it, that I wasn’t born the same sex as you?”
“I’m not opposed to men, if I’ve given you that impression. I’m not even opposed to you. If it were just you and I in this house, you might have the run of it—providing I was convinced you wouldn’t steal anything.”
“And you’re not convinced of that at the moment?”
“How could I be? I don’t know you.”
“It would do no good for me to swear that I’ve never stolen anything in my life?”
“I don’t know you.”
“You said, ‘if you and I were alone here.’ Does that mean you think I’m going to attack your pupils?”
“No, I don’t think that. I intend to see that you don’t get the opportunity.”
He half sat up. “I could make the opportunity, lady, if I was that kind of fella!”
“Lie back and be quiet. I don’t permit shouting in my house. Besides you’re going to disturb that wound.”
“Do you think me that sort of fella?”
“I can’t judge you yet. If I decide you are, you won’t be with us long.”
“It would do me no good to swear I wouldn’t dream of harming your young ladies?”
“Again I don’t know you.”
“How long will it take to know me?”
“You won’t be here that long.”
“Well,” he said lying back and breathing heavily from the exertion, “I’ll give you a few quick facts so’s I won’t be a total stranger to you, in case you decide to throw me out this morning. Name . . . John McBurney. Age, twenty. Colonial citizen without rights of Great Britain. Born in the Country of Wexford of Patrick McBurney, deceased, and Mary McBurney, still living . . . if you can call it that nowadays in Ireland. No money, no prospects, no worries. No contagious diseases, no physical defects, except a recent war wound. All my teeth and hair, fingers and toes. A sound mind, I’m told, and a good memory. No troubles, no grievances, no hatreds—which may surprise you, considering where I’ve come from. No curiosity, except about the whole world. No wishes, except to be my own man. Entered the city of New York, December twenty-third, eighteen-and-sixty-three. Enlisted in the Union Army, January fourth, eighteen-and-sixty-four. Promoted to the rank of acting corporal, April fifteenth, eighteen-and-sixty-four. Captured by Confederate ladies, May fifth, eighteen-and-sixty-four. Now ma’am would you say you still don’t know me?”
“I know what you’ve told me.”
“Meaning I could be lying?”
“Yes, you could be, but even if you told the truth, all you’ve given me are some biographical statistics which could fit anyone from a clergyman to a criminal. I still don’t know what you’re really like.”
“I don’t suppose you’d learn that if I stayed here a lifetime. Nor very likely would I learn what you’re like in the same length of time. Except that I know a bit about you already.”
“Do you indeed,” said I. I must admit I was somewhat beguiled by his earnestness of manner, if not his audacity. “You said you didn’t want anything except to be your own man. To be free and footloose, I suppose that means. And that’s all you want?”
“I want to live my own life in the way I choose. I want to be beholden to no one—take orders from no one. I came to this country because of that. If you knew what it was like in the old land, you’d understand me. And I suppose maybe I want the usual things . . . the wife and toddlers and the place to hang my hat . . . that whole lot, you know. And also right now I’d like a friend.”
“Only one friend?”
“A friend is not so easy to come by in a strange land.”
“You were four months in the Union Army. What about your companions?”
“Some of the native borns made fun of me—my brogue, you know, and I suppose my country ways. Well I had to fight them or retreat, and even if I had a mind to run, there’s very little place to hide in an army company. And either way it doesn’t gain you many friends, especially when it’s a veteran outfit that has been together for a long time and has shared a lot of common trouble. Those oldtimers don’t take too kindly to the newcomers and bounty men.”
“Bounty men?”
“I got two hundred dollars bounty for enlisting.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“The rebs all enlist for God and country, don’t they, and the grubby Yankees sell themselves for money.”
“That’s what some of our people say. And I wonder that you were promoted if you were so much disliked.”
“You haven’t got it exactly straight. It wasn’t that they all disliked me, I’m sure of that. It was just that they weren’t entirely friendly. And I’ll tell you the truth about the stripes. I won them in a fair fight. I bet all my pay for one year against the corporal’s stripes that I could whip him. And the captain, who was truly an evil man and who wanted to see me beaten, agreed to it. Well I will say he was fair about it when I won, though he didn’t expect it. Anyway
he let me sew the stripes on to wear—until the corporal had recovered, he said, and there was time for a rematch. Also, with due humility, the captain knew I deserved the rank. And about the bounty . . . I sent the two hundred dollars to my mother.”
Had he, I wondered?
“Do you believe me?”
“I don’t disbelieve you?”
“That’s not quite the same thing, is it? Go away, lady, and let me sleep.”
He turned away, facing the back of the settee. I thought then that there were tears in his eyes. Suddenly, lying there, he looked very much like my departed brother. There was really no similarity of feature and McBurney was much slighter than Robert, but the back of this boy’s head on the settee pillow and the hunch of his shoulder reminded me of Robert on one of the last occasions I had seen him.
He was in his room lying on his bed with his back to me and he said, as I recall, very much the same thing. “I don’t want to talk with you. Go away and let me sleep.” I had rebuked him, as I often did, for some foolishness or other and that was his response.
Robert’s hair was very like this boy’s also, in its curliness and tawny color and the way it usually grew over the edges of his collar, much the same as this boy’s. I wondered if Harriet had noticed this. I also wonder now what would have happened had I not noticed it.
Because I believe now that was what prompted me to say, “I have changed my mind. I think we shall all have our breakfast in here after all.”
It was not that my pity for him had blinded me altogether to the dangers of the association. I was still aware of the potential evil. As for that, there was evil in my brother too and I’m sure I would have hesitated before permitting Robert the run of a house full of young women.
But at that moment it did not appear that our visitor was about to run anywhere for a while. And I thought, “At least we can test him in this manner. We can see how he behaves in company. And if he shows the least sign of any forwardness, I will not hesitate to send him away immediately.”
“Well, what do you say?” I asked him. “Are you agreeable to breakfasting in company?”
The Beguiled Page 12
