On the other hand maybe it hadn’t been Johnny coming up from downstairs at all. It could just as easily have been someone else, possibly even Alice herself, walking very softly in order not to disturb any of us and going past my door on her way up to her own room. But what would Alice have been doing downstairs after everyone had retired? It wasn’t very hard to think of an answer to that—pestering Johnny, without any doubt. But would Miss Martha have allowed it? She certainly would not have granted any such permission, but on the other hand, Miss Martha needn’t have known anything about it. Alice, I decided now, had most likely gone into the dining room or the library until everyone else was safely upstairs and then she had slipped back into the parlor for a private conversation with Johnny. Well, if this was the case—and it seemed now that it must be—she hadn’t managed to stay down with him there alone for very long.
But hadn’t I heard Alice go upstairs a while ago? Hadn’t there been some goodnights exchanged in the hall between Emily and Alice or Amelia and Alice? I racked my brain but I just couldn’t remember now. And of course even if Alice had made a pretense of going to bed there was no reason why she couldn’t have slipped back down to the parlor again after the others were in their rooms.
That certainly must be the case. There was no earthly reason, except my own penchant for self torture, for imagining anything else. And anyway, whether Alice had remained downstairs after everyone else had gone to bed or had gone back downstairs later, she was certainly upstairs now—and almost as certainly alone—and I was determined not to allow myself to think of any other possibility.
I sat up in bed again and tried to read my William Blake by moonlight but it wasn’t any use. The moon was soon clouded over and I couldn’t keep my mind on the poems anyway. Then I tried to think of how wonderful it would be sometime soon when Johnny and I met again somewhere far away from this school—far away from anywhere I had ever been miserable. I tried to picture Johnny and me as man and wife living in a nice house somewhere—in New York or Philadelphia maybe, or some other city in the North where I believe people are sometimes valued more for who they are and what they can do rather than what they are and where they come from—because in some ways I hate the South more and more every day. Sometimes I just hope we lose this war and are utterly destroyed by the Yankees—just ground down under all their heels so that there will never be any more trace of us, or our mothers or our children. I hate Richmond and Savannah and this school and all the rest of it. I hate it now but I hated it more on that night, because with the expectation of something better in store for me, there was no reason to hold back my hate. I just hated the whole world, except Johnny, on that night. And I loved him, I knew then. I had said the words to him in the afternoon and meant them but now I knew for certain that I loved only him.
And loving him, I must trust him. And feeling thus, I decided, it was ridiculous to stay at this school any longer. I might just as well go away with Johnny in the morning rather than stay behind and regret it as soon as he was out of sight. Downstairs I had convinced myself that it was best for him to go away from Farnsworth, and now it seemed that without any question leaving would be the best course for both of us. We had only to go to Richmond together and see my father and tell him of our plans to marry and my father would be so overjoyed at the news he would arrange our passages to England or California or anywhere we liked. It was all so obvious once the missing part of the picture was in place—once I was completely committed to McBurney.
It needn’t be a difficult undertaking at all, I decided. I would need only to pack my small handbag with a few necessary things and everything else I would leave behind to be distributed among the girls. Even Alice might have some of my clothes, I thought. In fact I decided I would give Alice my black velvet dress, the one that had caused all the comment at the dinner just past. And my red silk brocade, Alice could have that too if she liked. And all my afternoon dresses I would give to Emily, since those would suit her better. And all my perfume and soap and silk kerchiefs could be shared by Marie and Amelia and perhaps Miss Martha and Miss Harriet could find some use for the several shawls and scarves I would leave with them. Of course Miss Martha and Miss Harriet might have any of the things they liked, although I would be very mannerly and careful not to give offense when I made the offer.
As for money, all of my gold pieces were gone, but I still had five Yankee silver dollars and ten more in paper which ought to be more than enough for the fare on the Richmond and Fredericksburg Railroad. The problem was the Yankee army which was between us and Fredericksburg now, driving southeast out of Spotsylvania Courthouse the last we had heard and encamped now supposedly somewhere down around the North Anna River. There seemed no doubt that the Yankees had taken complete charge of the Fredericksburg road to Richmond if they had not ripped up the tracks entirely. On the other hand there was still the Virginia Central Railroad which stopped at Gordonsville about twenty miles to the southwest of us. I seemed to remember that the Virginia Central ran east to Hanover Junction before it turned south for Richmond, but it was very possible that the Yankees hadn’t reached Hanover Junction yet and that the railroad was still in operation.
Therefore the plan was simple. Johnny, wearing the old suit of Robert Farnsworth’s, and I, in my brown satin traveling dress and blue bonnet, would walk to Gordonsville in the morning and take the Virginia Central Railroad to Richmond. Miss Martha would know if fifteen Yankee dollars was sufficient fare for two of us, and if it wasn’t, I was sure she would lend me the necessary balance. As for that, if I presented all my excess belongings to Amelia and Emily and Marie, without a doubt one of them would be glad to give me some money. They all come from wealthy families and are very generous girls too—I thought then—even if they do have other faults.
And so the only thing left to do now was to tell Johnny about it. I didn’t anticipate any difficulty in getting his agreement because he had convinced me of his affection for me and I had arguments for all the rest of it. Johnny would see immediately, I was sure, that it would be to both our advantages if we set off together. Even apart from our feelings for each other, there was the fact that I wanted to leave the school anyway and that he would have a better chance of traveling unmolested if a person of the opposite sex were with him.
And so filled with these thoughts I arose and put on my blue silk dressing gown over the Parisian nightdress and went to the door. At that moment I became aware of the noise in the room above me—Alice’s room. I think now that the sounds must have been occurring for some time but I had managed to shut my mind to them. There were sounds of movement and of furniture bumping and when I came outside to the hall I heard a voice—Alice giggling, I was sure—but still only one voice. I waited by my door and listened but no other person was joining in her merriment.
Was she laughing to herself—reading a book perhaps and laughing? Hardly likely, considering Alice’s distaste for the printed page. Could it be just some private joke of her own? Or maybe—I forced myself to face it—there was someone else up there with her—Amelia, perhaps or more likely, Marie. True, Alice and Marie were not the best of friends but Marie was in the habit of wandering around the house at night, especially on those occasions when she had been ordered to remain in her room. She had been sentenced to some such punishment that very day, I remembered, and although she had apparently been paroled later because of Johnny’s dinner, she might still be feeling truculent about the punishment and be flaunting her disregard for authority by prowling the house.
If Alice had company at all up there, it must be Marie, I was certain—so certain that I even started for the other stairs, but then Alice laughed again and I wondered suddenly if she were laughing at me. Was Johnny up there after all—telling her about me—repeating all the stupid things I’d said to him that afternoon? Was Alice telling him all the school gossip about me—mimicking my precise way of speaking—making fun of me—mocking me?
Anyt
hing was possible, I knew, where Alice was concerned, but I would still have bet my life that if Johnny was up there, he would have a perfectly legitimate explanation which I would accept instantly and without question. And in any case, if he is up there, I told myself, he is certainly not discussing me with Alice. I know him better than that, I said. I may not be the greatest judge of character in the world, but I certainly know Johnny better than that. How could Johnny or anyone else in the world deceive a person who all her life has been only waiting and watching for the words and glances that don’t match, for the raised brow and the turned back, for the scorn behind the smile?
Still, I thought, before going down to the parlor it might be just as well to walk softly up to Alice’s door and listen very briefly, just to set my mind at ease. Whether he is in there or not, I thought, it will be better to know. If he isn’t in Alice’s room, then I can go straight down to the parlor and tell him of my plan for tomorrow. If he is in there, I won’t feel at all unhappy about it, but will just accept it as some private personal business that he has with Alice and I’ll come straightway back to my own room and wait until morning to tell him that I am traveling with him.
Thinking those things I went up the stairs. Halfway up I decided against walking softly because it seemed unnecessarily sly and deceitful. I made up my mind now that if I heard his voice inside her room, I would rap and say, “Sorry to disturb you, Johnny, but there is something I would like to tell you, if you will be so good as to stop by my room on your way downstairs,” or, “If Alice would not mind my interrupting your conversation, there is a matter of some interest to you which I will tell you about if you will only step out here in the hall for just one moment.”
There was a light shining under her door, but no sound of any conversation now within. Perhaps Alice was alone after all. Perhaps she had been laughing in her sleep before—or even crying since they sound much the same. Apparently I have cried in my sleep on one or two occasions—although I denied it when Emily told me—and Miss Harriet quite often weeps at night. Certainly there was no reason why Alice couldn’t have troubled dreams as well as any of the rest of us. As to her candle being lit, perhaps she was afraid of the dark. If I had to sleep on the third floor by myself, I thought, probably I would be reluctant to blow out my candle, too.
Glad to grasp at this explanation, I turned to go back down again, but wasn’t quick enough. Alice laughed again, and then Johnny laughed. And then he said . . . quite clearly . . . “I love you.”
I opened the door. He was in bed with her. I yelled . . . or screamed . . . or called out something. He jumped up . . . and took his trousers from a chair . . . all the while smiling and nodding at me as though nothing was wrong and he could explain everything. He came toward me then . . . and reached for me. I backed away . . . still screaming, I think. He said, “Dear Edwina” . . . and I pushed him away. I struck at him . . . at his face . . . and shoved him. He fell . . . backwards . . . down the stairs. . . .
Emily Stevenson
Well, as you can imagine, there was a great deal of consternation at this school after Edwina Morrow awakened the whole house with her screaming and shouting that night—and I must say she used some pretty horrible language. I don’t know where Edwina ever learned all those terrible words—the meaning of some of which I didn’t even know myself. Marie Deveraux, who is quite a precocious child—and in much the wrong way, if you ask me—assured us that the words and expressions Edwina used were very common among New Orleans riverboaters, and slave traders, and trashy people of that sort. Anyway we all decided that it would be mighty ridiculous for Edwina ever to put on any more airs around here or ever again try to play the Richmond lady after a shocking performance like that.
McBurney was unconscious—from hitting his head on the stairs, I suppose—and in addition his leg wound had reopened and was gushing blood all over the hall floor. We had thought at first he might be dead but after Mattie brought a light from the kitchen, Miss Martha inspected him quickly and decided his heart was still beating but would not continue to do so for very long unless the flow of blood was halted.
On Miss Martha’s orders Edwina had stopped her screaming but was still standing at the top of the stairs gazing with no expression on the scene below. As for Alice, as far as I know, she had not yet come out of her room at all, unless she may have peeked around the corner of her door momentarily and then retreated again. Consequently, except for what we could gather from Edwina’s angry tirade, we had very little knowledge then of what was going on. And Edwina refused to answer when Miss Martha asked her for an explanation.
“Well, sister, are you satisfied now or do you still think this is a virtuous young man?” said Miss Martha, turning her wrath in another direction.
“I don’t know that he is guilty of anything,” said Miss Harriet.
“You see him here and you say that?”
“I see him lying on the floor. I don’t see any evidence that he has committed wrong. Will you let him bleed to death, sister, before you’ve even charged him with anything?”
“Move aside, girls, for pity’s sake,” said Miss Martha sharply then. “Don’t stand there gawking. Harriet, or one of you, get strips of cloth of some kind—anything!”
Now Edwina deigned to come downstairs. “Wait,” she said, descending slowly and holding back the skirts of her dressing gown.
When she reached us she removed the dressing gown, revealing the most indecent night dress I have ever seen. It was made of lace and the thinnest possible material, which little Marie remarked would have served as window glass. We didn’t get a chance to examine it very carefully, however, since Edwina dropped it off her shoulders immediately and then stepped out of it, baring herself completely. Then she took it from the floor and tore it savagely into strips.
“There,” she said, handing the results to Miss Martha. “That may do you for the moment.”
“Cover yourself, Miss,” said Miss Martha. “There’s a chill in this hall.” Then without further comment or even another glance at Edwina, she set to wrapping the strips around McBurney’s leg.
I don’t know whether Edwina expected to be thanked for the donation or not, but if so she was disappointed. She put on her dressing gown again and tied it carefully and smoothed out the wrinkles in it and then without another word to any of us, she went into her own room and closed the door.
By this time Mattie had returned with a basin of cold water and was bathing the bump on the back of McBurney’s head, and then Miss Harriet joined in with her smelling salts, attempting to revive him. However he was in such a state of total insensibility that I doubt that anything could have brought him out of it—even the Angel of Doom with his silver trumpet. On the other hand, as I reflected later, it was just possible that McBurney was shamming all the time in order to avoid embarrassing explanations. Of course, if this was the case, he was a better actor than I ever thought him because he gave no sign of feeling any pain as Miss Martha applied the tourniquet.
“Couldn’t that possibly be done more gently, Miss Martha?” Amelia enquired anxiously.
“If it’s going to be done at all, it must be done quickly,” said Miss Martha without bothering to reprimand her.
“Your prize doesn’t feel anything just now anyway,” I told her. “Though in my opinion he deserves a twinge or two for his conduct, don’t you agree, Miss Martha?”
Miss Martha made no answer but I believe she fully agreed with me because it was true that she was not being nearly so careful in attending to McBurney’s leg as she had been the first time. Oh she was being thorough enough, I suppose, as she is with every task she sets herself, but I must say I would not want my leg attended to quite that roughly even if I were unconscious. Anyway Miss Martha completed the tourniquet and then began to rip away McBurney’s trouser leg.
“That’s the second pair of trousers Johnny McBurney has ruined,” said Marie. “First his
own and now this pair that Miss Martha gave him.”
“Perhaps these can be repaired later,” Miss Harriet suggested.
“There may be no need of that,” said her sister. “It’s quite possible your Mister McBurney will never need two trouser legs again.”
From the appearance of his leg that was an understatement. The wound had not only reopened but the bone which had been splintered before seemed now to be completely broken from the way the leg was bent below the knee.
“We can do nothing more for him up here,” said Miss Martha. “He will have to be taken back downstairs again.”
“Why couldn’t we just put him in one of the bedrooms up here?” asked Miss Harriet. “The room opposite Edwina’s is empty.”
“Are you looking for a repetition of tonight’s incident?” Miss Martha wanted to know.
“In Heaven’s name, Martha!” Miss Harriet practically shouted, “the boy is helpless.”
“At the moment perhaps,” our headmistress retorted, “but he isn’t dead yet. Besides I have another reason for wanting him downstairs. We may need to put him on the dining room table in order to take care of that leg. Now we can use the assistance of all of you for this. Take his arm, Harriet, and you, Emily, take the other. Mattie may grasp him by his good leg and I’ll hold up the injured one. Amelia and Marie, get behind his shoulders.”
The Beguiled Page 26
