“I’m beginning to think maybe I don’t know them.”
“Well you know me, don’t you, for pity’s sake!”
“Yes, I think I will always know you, Marie.”
I didn’t say anything for a long while after that. To tell the truth I couldn’t think of anything to say after that very nice remark Amelia had made about me—and in response to my shouting at her, too. Finally I told her, “I’m sure I will always know you, too, Amelia. I think you’re the nicest person at the school, even if you probably are the strangest too. Now just stay here in this hiding place for as long as you like. I’ll go back and tell Miss Harriet that you won’t be dining with us, and that possibly you won’t ever be returning to the school at all. I’ll say that if Corporal McBurney asks for you again, she had better give him that message, too.”
“Did he ask for me?”
“It seems to me Miss Harriet said he did. You see he apparently knows you, even if you don’t know him. That’s why Miss Harriet sent me to find you. Johnny McBurney is very hurt and afraid and she thinks you are the only one who can help him.”
“You never tell lies to me do you, Marie?”
“Not in important matters.”
She arose then and closed my jewel box with her turtle in it.
“Tuck up your skirt and follow right on my heels in the tunnel,” she said, “and you won’t get scratched again.”
And I didn’t. With Amelia leading we just glided through that tunnel and came out into the sunlight without hardly ever touching a branch or thorn on the way. That girl just seems to have a way with everything that lives in the woods. The normal person may be bitten and stung and torn and bruised whenever she sets foot out of the civilized world, but not Amelia. The thorns don’t scratch her, the gnats never bite her and I believe she could sit down to a dish of poison ivy pie without it ever raising a rash on her tongue.
“I’m really convinced you are some kind of woodland creature who was turned into human form by a witch,” I said as we trotted along at the pace Amelia says was always used by Indians when they were roaming around here years ago. “I am mortally certain I am going to awaken some morning and find a giant lizard or a huge toad in the bed across from me, and then you will stare at me sadly with your beady eyes filled with tears and you will say, ‘Goodbye forever, Marie. I’m sorry I’ve been so mean to you.’ And then you will hop or scuttle, as your form permits, through the window and out of sight.”
“How am I mean to you?” she wanted to know, without denying my charges of bewitchment. As a matter of fact I think she would be very happy if such were the case. It would suit Amelia wonderfully well to be anything but a human being.
“You are not really mean, I suppose,” I told her. “In fact, now that I think on it, you are probably the unmeanest person I know.”
Shortly after that very sincere statement of mine we came out of the woods and crossed the road to the field. I could see some people now huddled in the garden and I was praying that at least a part of the burial service would be left by the time we got back there.
Well it had not yet begun, thank the Lord, but I didn’t make it with much to spare. Mattie had just finished digging the little grave under the arbor and she was standing next to it holding her garden basket. Beside her were Alice and Emily looking very solemn, with their hands folded demurely and their heads bowed.
Without breaking her stride Amelia continued on to the parlor door, bearing her turtle box carefully clutched to her breast, while I joined the little group in the arbor.
“Lord,” Mattie was beginning, “let us be buryin all this poor boy’s troubles along with his leg. Let us be buryin all the future pain and misery and grief you might have had in mind for him if this thing hadn’t happened. Let him lead a long and happy life on the one leg he’s got left, and when you come to take him up to Heaven with you on the Judgment Day, just remember where his right leg is and glue it back on him so’s he’ll be restored to his full and handsome manhood for all the days of eternity. Let us here be good and kind to him from now on while he’s with us and put up with him if he complains and grumbles a bit, cause he’s got a lot to grumble about. Give him his health back now and make him ready to be on his way again soon. And let him remember all of us . . . or anyway most of us as his friends. All this for your great glory . . . and our salvation . . . amen.”
“Amen,” we all said.
Then Mattie put the napkin-covered garden basket in the hole and tossed a clod of dirt after it, and then each of us picked up a handful of dirt and followed suit.
“Now you young ladies go in and wash your hands and get yourselves ready for dinner,” Mattie said, as she took the spade and began filling the hole. “The services are over. There ain’t no more for you to do here.”
“We ought to put some flowers on the grave,” said Alice. “Roses would be nice, or hyacinth.”
“Hollyhocks or iris are more manly flowers,” said Emily, “and either of those would make a nice contrast with the rest of the arbor.”
“If we’re starting a campaign of friendliness toward McBurney,” said I, “it might be a nice beginning gesture to leave the flower choosing to him. After all, it’s his leg.”
The others nodded, whether in agreement or only in acknowledgment of having heard me, I cannot say. Anyway on that note we left the arbor and returned to the house via the kitchen door to prepare for dinner.
Amelia Dabney
On the day of Corporal McBurney’s disfigurement I went out to the woods and stayed there for a long time until Marie Deveraux came about four o’clock or a little after to tell me that Johnny needed me. Then I returned to help him however I could.
I was afraid to look at him at first, thinking that he would be completely changed by what had happened and that I really wouldn’t know him—as I had been telling myself all day would be the case. Finally I reproached myself for my cowardice and stole a quick glance at him, and then I saw he was really no different than before. Of course the lower and most changed part of his body was covered by a blanket, but his face was the same—only a bit gaunter maybe, but certainly no paler than the day he first came.
Miss Harriet was, like Johnny, asleep. She was seated in a chair near him with a half filled glass of wine in her hand. She was shivering and twitching as though from a bad dream, causing the wine to spill on her dress, so I took it from her as gently as I could and put it on the stand beside the bottle. Then I pulled another chair up beside the settee and sat down to wait for Johnny to awaken and tell me what I could do for him.
Right then I would have done anything he asked. I felt very bad, you see, because I had brought him to the school and told him that he would be safe and happy here, and now this terrible thing had been done to him. I didn’t know whether it needed to be done or not, but I was sure it needn’t have been done so quickly. And, of course, whatever the necessity, I felt the responsibility was mostly mine. I could have left him in the woods and his own people might have found him and given him much better care than we had been able to offer him. I could have left him lying on the leaves and gone away and he might have recovered by himself as wounded animals sometimes do, or else have died very quietly, without fear of pain, as is the case I think with animals.
Well I just felt at that time as though I had reached the absolute depths of misery. I felt worse I believe than I did on the day I learned my brothers had been killed at Chickamauga. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I thought more of Johnny than I did of Dick or Billy—although it may be possible that I did—but what I’m trying to say is that I have always been more distressed by the thought of suffering than I have been by the thought of death. Death is a natural biological event but there is no rule in nature which demands our suffering. Perhaps this is a law of religion—as my roommate once tried to tell me—but I am certain there is nothing of the sort in the world of nature.
Of course I have no way of knowing whether Dick and Billy’s deaths were painless or not, but Johnny McBurney’s suffering was very plain to see. It couldn’t be denied. Even by remaining in the woods, I realized now, I was only comforting myself. I wasn’t making his pain go away.
As I was thinking these things he opened his eyes and looked at me, and whispered, “Mum. . . .”
I went over to him. “What’s that, Johnny?”
“Mum . . . where’s Mum?”
“It’s Amelia. There’s no one here but Amelia . . . and Miss Harriet.”
“Amelia?”
“Yes . . . your friend.”
“My leg hurts, Amelia.”
“I’m sorry, Johnny,” I told him, and didn’t know what else to say. After another while he opened his eyes again and asked for water. I poured a glass for him and held it to his lips while he swallowed a bit of it.
Then he stared directly at me. “Did they cut it off, Amelia?” he asked very clearly.
I thought of lying to him about it, but then realized it would only be a temporary comfort. “Yes,” I said, “they did.” There seemed no way of softening it, so I didn’t try.
“I’ll fix them,” he said distinctly. “I’ll bloody well fix them.”
Then his lip began to quiver and his eyes filled with tears. “I was the best damn runner in the county,” he said, “and the highest jumper. . . .”
“And you can still be both those things, Johnny,” I told him. “We’ll make another leg for you out of wood and after you’ve practiced on it for a while, you’ll be able to run and jump and leap as well as you ever did.”
I wasn’t awfully confident of that, of course, but I wasn’t sure it would be entirely impossible either. In fact the more I began to turn it over in my mind, the more reasonable it seemed that we could make a nice wooden leg on which he ought to be able to get around very nicely, even if at no great speed.
It was something to occupy my mind and it was what he needed too. And so I began to tell him of the fine new leg we would make for him. “You can choose your own wood, Johnny,” I said. “I know where there are some fine new logs . . . oak and cedar and beech wood, too . . . from trees knocked down by cannon fire. Pine is the easiest wood to work, of course, but I think for hard use you’ll want something more sturdy than Virginia pine. Now walnut is a good dependable wood and I believe I can locate one fallen walnut tree, but perhaps, for good long wear, hickory would be your best choice. It’s a bit hard to cut, of course, but we could take our time with it and in the end you’ll have a leg that will last forever. I’m going to start right out tomorrow, Johnny, and look for the best hickory tree in these parts. I’ll go clear to the Rapidan, if I have to, in order to find that tree . . . and if the guns haven’t knocked it down, then you and I will get axes and saws and cut it down. What do you think of that plan, Johnny?”
“All right,” he whispered. “Whatever you say. . . .”
“Everything is going to be all right, Johnny. You just have to believe that.”
“I believe you, Amelia. I trust you. . . .”
“Well I’m glad you do. . . . I want you to keep right on trusting me. And when this pain gets better, I promise you that no one in this house will cause you any more pain. I’ll take you away from here myself if I have to, in order to prevent that. Do you hear that, Johnny?”
“Yes, I hear. The leg hurts awful bad, Amelia. Are you sure it isn’t there?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Would you ever take a look, Amelia. Maybe it’s a joke they’re playing!”
So I took a deep breath and made myself lift the edge of the blanket. There hadn’t been any jokes played on him.
“It’s gone all right, Johnny,” I said. “Therefore it will definitely have to stop hurting after a while. It will stop hurting soon and won’t hurt you ever again.”
“I’ll fix them,” he murmured again. “By God in Heaven I’ll fix them. . . .”
“You mustn’t talk that way, Johnny,” I said. “It’s not a nice way to talk. And who would you fix anyway? I’m sure Miss Martha and everyone else thought they were doing the right thing. And although it must seem pretty bad now, at least you know that nothing worse can happen. They can’t do any more harm to you now. As a matter of fact I’ll bet that everyone here will try to make it up to you now in every way they can. From now on I’ll bet you’re going to be the Lord of the manor around here. You’ll get such attention from now on that it won’t be any time at all before you’ve forgotten about that old leg.”
Then I opened a box which I happened to have with me and showed him what was inside. “Do you see this little snapping turtle in this box, Johnny? Well this little turtle was so sick and defeated a few weeks ago he just didn’t care whether he lived or died. But just look at him now. He’s recovered completely and barring an accident, he’ll probably live to be a hundred. And do you know what did it, Johnny? Do you know what cured this little turtle?”
“What?”
“Love. Love and tender care. And that’s what you’re going to get. And not only from me. I’ll bet my last dollar you’ll get it from everybody else too.”
“I don’t want anything from them. They may have done their worst to me . . . but I haven’t done my worst to them.”
Well that kind of talk was very disturbing to me, of course. But he did seem to be taking a kind of comfort from it, and right then, I thought, he deserved all the comfort he could get. I expect if he hadn’t been able to cling to those revengeful thoughts, he might have gone ahead and died right then.
“Johnny,” I said, thinking to change the subject. “Johnny, do you know what I saw a while ago in the woods? Do you remember the bird you were telling me about on the morning after you came—the bird which you said is almost always on the wing and has no real home? Well I saw that very bird today. It was very small and brightly colored—something like a humming bird but not quite the same. For one thing its beak wasn’t quite as long and also it didn’t beat the air with its wings in the fashion of a humming bird, but instead hovered very gracefully and without effort as gulls and other sea birds do. It descended toward me and then rose again and went off and came back several times as though it was trying to tell me something. I couldn’t imagine what possible message that little bird might have for me and then all at once it came to me. That bird was trying to say, ‘Amelia, look at me. See how fast I can fly out of the shadows up into the sunshine. Why don’t you do the same, Amelia? Whatever your troubles are, they can’t be any greater than mine. You know I happen to be one of the last of my kind and maybe I won’t ever be able to find a mate to perpetuate my line, but I’m not worrying about it. I just keep thinking that summer is here and the sun is shining and I have the whole wide sky to fly in. Why don’t you think that way yourself, Amelia? Why don’t you forget your gloomy thoughts and fly up with me into the shining sky?’
“And at that moment the little bird flew off at the great speed you described, Johnny—right up into the sun. I watched him as long as I could and then, when he was only a small speck in the light, I covered my eyes and imagined I was climbing up into the brightness with the little bird and leaving all my troubles behind me. It really works, Johnny, and you can do the same. You can forget all your troubles and fly up into the sunshine. You can forget all about Miss Martha and the others and just concentrate on all the good days that are to come. Just keep all the pain and fear . . . and all the worry and all the gloom . . . out of your mind. Just keep thinking how nice things will be for you from now on. You don’t ever have to go back to the war for one thing. Even if your people find out where you are, they can’t ever make you go back now. They’ll have to give you an honorable discharge from the army and maybe they’ll even give you a citation of some kind to go along with it . . . in remembrance of the wound you’ve suffered . . . like the one that General Bragg sent to my
mother when Dick and Billy were killed. I don’t set much store by such things myself but my mother does and perhaps your mother would too, if you sent the citation home to her.”
His eyes were closed again now. “I’ll fix them . . . I’ll fix them,” he was still muttering faintly.
“All right, Johnny,” I said. “You fix them. You fix them by just forgetting that they ever existed.”
I had drawn my chair back a bit so that Johnny might have full benefit of the afternoon breeze which was sifting gently through the curtains on the garden door. My chair was in the shadowed part of the room and since it was the chair with the high back and was turned away from the settee, I suppose it was very easy for visitors to overlook me. I wasn’t attempting to spy or to listen to the remarks of the people who came in, but on the other hand I didn’t advertise my presence either because I didn’t want to be sent away from Johnny or to be drawn into some useless conversation about him with some other student. I didn’t want to discuss Johnny’s condition or to hear any more about the operation than what Marie had already told me. I wasn’t at all interested—or only very slightly interested—in what any of the visitors had to say, beyond hoping that none of them would awaken Johnny, who now seemed to be sleeping quietly.
He was awakened after a while, but not by the first visitor. The first one who came in was Miss Martha herself and she entered very quietly. She crossed the room on tiptoe, glanced quickly at Miss Harriet, who was also still sleeping, and then just stood there for a long while by Johnny’s side, studying him quietly.
Then she said softly, “You don’t look like him at all. You don’t now and you didn’t before.” And then after another long pause, “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend you any harm.”
She stared at him for a while longer and then felt his brow and the heartbeat in his wrist, and then she came back and picked up the wine bottle from the table beside Miss Harriet and left the room, taking the bottle with her.
The Beguiled Page 33
