The Beguiled

by Thomas Cullinan

“Not for you either,” said Martha, as evenly as she could. “It’s over and done.”

  “The thing is over but not the consequences. They’ll be with me and you for the rest of our lives.”

  “How with me?”

  “You’ll see, dear lady. You’ll find out. But to go back to the first condition. No, I won’t give you back your locket—at least for the present I won’t. I want to hang on to it for a bit in order to remind myself of what you really are.”

  “What do you mean by that remark?”

  “I think you’re an unnatural woman,” said McBurney, reaching for another bottle and opening it in his usual fashion. “I think you had unnatural feelings for your brother.”

  He seemed about to say more, but then changed his mind. Perhaps he was shocked at his own drunken words. My sister was certainly shocked. She seemed as close to fainting as I have ever seen her. Of course, at that point I was not very steady on my feet myself.

  “You beast . . .” Martha said finally in a very low voice, the candle trembling in her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” said McBurney, trying to grin now. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It was just the picture in the locket and all.”

  “That locket belonged to my mother.”

  “But you had it in your drawer . . . along with all those letters from him. . . .”

  “Tell me what you read in those letters.”

  “You know . . . you know,” he said, “all about you two.”

  He took a long swallow of wine, cutting his lip on the jagged glass and then wiping the wine and blood on his sleeve. He was very intoxicated by this time and I suppose not really responsible for anything he said. I kept wishing Martha would realize that and pay no attention to him. In fact, I was almost tempted to speak out and tell her that, but then I decided she might feel embarrassed at my having overheard McBurney’s terrible accusation.

  “I demand to know what you read in those letters,” Martha told him. “Those letters are the innocent account of my brother’s experiences at his University. If you’ve found something else in them, I demand to know what it is.”

  “Never mind,” he said, grinning wildly now. “I take it all back. I was just jokin is all, just teasin you. Here, you can have your locket.”

  He tossed it to her. She made no attempt to catch it but let it land at her feet.

  “I’d give you back the money, too, if I had it,” McBurney said. “Here, I’ll give you something else. You want this?”

  He fumbled in the darkness beside him and brought up my father’s huge military pistol. “You can have this, too,” he said, extending it—but whether by the barrel or by the grip, I can’t remember now. In fact, I might have closed my eyes, I was so frightened by my first glimpse of it.

  “You keep it,” my sister said. “You may have need of it.”

  Now, I think this is what she said, but again I suppose I was not really paying very close attention. Anyway, I do remember her next action very clearly and the words which followed. She raised her foot and brought the heel of her shoe down deliberately on the locket and smashed and ground it into the floor of the cellar.

  “You may keep that, too,” she said, and holding her candle before her in her right hand, she drew back her skirts with the other and moved without haste toward the stairs and the place where I was hidden.

  I know now I should have revealed my presence as soon as I entered the cellar, but having failed to do so, I could not dream of doing it then and embarrassing her. Or for that matter, embarrassing McBurney. I was still in an uncertain mood about him, you see, still somewhat inclined to put his actions down to the understandable anger of a hurt and lonely boy.

  Anyway, I hurried up and out of the cellar before Martha reached the bottom of the stairs. I do not think she said anything more to Corporal McBurney on that night.

  His parting words to her—or at least the last I heard—were, “Please, ma’am, don’t be sore at me. You’ve treated me first rate here . . . most of the time . . . and I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  When she didn’t answer that, his tone grew rougher again and he shouted something which to me was quite unforgivable, even considering his state of intoxication. What he called out was, “All right, you old biddy, go along! But be careful you don’t trip and lose your hair!”

  I shall have to explain this remark, although I have always tried to be discreet about the matter, particularly as far as the students here are concerned. The plain fact is Martha lost all her hair as a result of a fever many years ago and she has worn artificial hair ever since.

  It was the great tragedy of my sister’s life. I think she was perhaps twenty at the time it happened and it probably contributed more than a little to her withdrawal from society. Pursuing that line I suppose you could say it was the primary cause of her spinsterhood, and similarly by extension, the main reason, too, for mine. However, all that would require a long time to explain properly and I suppose it is not really relevant to the matter at hand.

  Anyway, when Martha had recovered from her fever, Father took her, turbaned and veiled, to a private and secluded place in Richmond—the establishment of a famous and skillful French wigmaker—and when they returned several weeks later, Martha was wearing the hair which can be observed on her now.

  I believe she brought one or two spare wigs with her, although we have never discussed it. In fact, I have never spoken to her about the matter at all. Robert and I were not even here during the summer of her illness, having been sent away to cousins in Roanoke in order to avoid contagion. When we came home that Christmas, Father took us aside and warned us never to mention Martha’s hair.

  Even now sometimes it escapes me that her hair is not as real as mine. It is certainly a very cleverly made wig and without doubt more convenient than natural hair like mine which must be brushed and otherwise attended to constantly if the gloss is to be retained. Although I suppose wigs need a certain amount of attention, too—cleaning, mending and the like—which I presume Martha takes care of in the privacy of her room.

  Well how McBurney found out about my sister’s unfortunate condition I did not know, but I did hope that when his head cleared in the morning, he would be gentleman enough to keep the information to himself. Indeed, I resolved to pledge him to silence at the first opportunity, telling him, perhaps, that I had noticed him staring at my sister and surmised that he had detected her secret.

  I do have my troubles with Martha, as must be obvious to everyone, and I do get very annoyed with her sometimes, but in this matter she has my complete sympathy and I would never be heartless enough to use such information against her, even in my moments of greatest rage at her.

  As my father said that day to Robert and me, “A lady’s appearance is her only weapon and we must never reveal that we know this weapon has no edge.” Of course, I know now that my sister has other swords at her disposal, but Father’s point was valid enough.

  At any rate I was beginning to agree with Martha that McBurney could not stay here much longer. However, the problem I was trying to solve on that night was how to talk her into letting him stay just a few more days until his leg was completely healed and he could move about fairly well on his crutches. I was hoping that Martha would not set out at once to inform his army about him, as she had declared she would do. I was trusting that when her temper had cooled, her charitable nature would take over, persuading her to grant McBurney a few days’ grace.

  And in the morning it seemed at first that she must have decided to do just that. When the young ladies and I came downstairs—I might add that none of the students were tardy on that morning, nor were they ever on any morning after a McBurney episode, which is one thing, at least, that might be credited in McBurney’s favor—we found my sister at the dining room table, drinking a cup of Mattie’s excellent acorn coffee and giving no outward evidence that she had spent anything b
ut a restful night.

  I had peered into the living room for a moment prior to this, but saw no sign of McBurney. The room was a shambles of overturned and broken furniture, some of which—I told myself—could have been caused accidentally by his stumbling around after consuming all that wine. But then, on second glance, some of the chairs and one small table looked as though they had been picked up and hurled some distance from their customary positions. The nicks and scratches are still visible on that furniture, all the result of Mister McBurney’s activities that night.

  As I say, I peered in but did not enter and, obeying my sister’s order that we must all avoid having contact with the young man, I refused to allow any of the girls to enter. Young Marie and Amelia were very eager to do so, of course, even though I had reported he was nowhere in sight.

  “Possibly he’s behind the corner cupboard,” Miss Marie suggested, “or curled up between the harpsichord and the wall.”

  “There isn’t enough space there,” said Miss Amelia, “but he might be behind the curtains. Although I don’t think he’d ever hide from me that way.”

  “It is of no consequence to any of you where he is,” I informed them, “since you are not permitted any conversation with him.” And I hurried them all along to the dining room, where as I mentioned, my sister was having her morning coffee.

  “The young ladies may proceed to their chores in the garden,” Martha announced. “There is no reason to interrupt our routine.”

  “Where is Mister McBurney, sister?” I inquired.

  “I have no idea,” she said without change of expression.

  “He isn’t in the parlor,” said I.

  “Then he must be elsewhere, mustn’t he?”

  “Perhaps he is still in the cellar.”

  “What do you mean ‘still’?”

  “Well, he was there last night, wasn’t he?”

  “Was he?”

  “Well, we heard him making a loud noise, didn’t we, and then you stated that you believed he had gone to the cellar.” I was in a most awkward position, since I didn’t want to admit that I had seen both of them down there.

  “Was he in the cellar when you came down last night, Martha?” I ventured now.

  “How do you know I came down?”

  “I heard you, sister. Was it wrong of me to hear you?”

  “I really don’t care to continue this discussion,” she said, and looked away.

  Well, I kept my peace for the moment. The girls had gone to the garden as ordered and I joined Martha at the table where we sat in silence for some moments. After awhile Mattie brought me a cup of acorn coffee and I just remained there quietly, provoking no quarrels, just sipping the coffee.

  Mattie was very subdued on that morning, too, and of course she had good reason to be. She had left the house at the first sign of trouble from McBurney and I assumed she’d spent the night in her old cabin in the quarters instead of on her cot in the kitchen. She still keeps a bed in the old place to which she repairs whenever she’s in trouble with my sister. Anyway, I expected she was ready to plead ignorance of the whole disturbance on the previous night.

  “Mattie, do you happen to know anything of Mister McBurney’s whereabouts?” I inquired of her.

  She said nothing, but looked more frightened than before.

  “Where is Mister McBurney, Mattie?” I asked more sternly.

  She still made no answer, but looked back over her shoulder at the kitchen doorway. I followed her glance and there he was, resting on his two homemade crutches and smiling shyly. He was neatly shaven, too, and his long and rather ragged hair was plastered down with water.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he said. “How are you both this fine summer morning?”

  “I’m well enough,” said I. “And you?”

  “Very well, thank you,” said he. “Do you see here now how grand I can get about on these fence posts?” He demonstrated by swinging himself a bit farther into the room.

  “You are doing excellently,” I told him. I was not prepared to forgive him entirely at that moment, of course, but I saw no harm in being civil to him.

  “I got up early this morning,” he reported in his best small boy manner, “and went out to the barn and repaired the one crutch that was broken, and then made a few small alterations in the other. There wasn’t a great lot that needed to be fixed, you know. Miss Emily did a fine job in making them. It was very nice of her and all of you.”

  He glanced sideways at Martha as he said this, but she ignored him and continued drinking her coffee.

  “Ladies, I want to say I’m sorry about last night,” he went on. “I know apologies aren’t enough to cover all of it and I don’t expect them to, but if you’d only try to think of it as a very low point in my life—which is over now, thank God—and from now on I’m ready to accept whatever fortunes or misfortunes each day brings without complaining. If you could only manage to look at the whole thing that way, I’d be eternally grateful.”

  There was still no reply from my sister, not even an acknowledgment of his presence.

  Well, I decided suddenly to follow the dictates of my feelings and so I said firmly, “I’m willing to accept your explanation and apology.”

  “Oh, God bless you, Miss Harriet,” he said, “thank you very much, ma’am.” He and I both looked at Martha now but she kept her gaze directed at the opposite wall.

  “Now if you’ll just give me another couple of days to get used to these sticks,” he continued, “I’ll be on my way up the road and be no more trouble to you.”

  “That seems a reasonable request,” I told him, “although in fairness I must admit that most of the time you have been of very little trouble to us. Won’t you agree with that, Martha?”

  But now she refused to answer me as well as him.

  “It’s very nice of you to take that attitude ma’am,” McBurney remarked. “A lot wouldn’t,” flicking his eyes toward his foe. “Anyway, I know I’ve been a great bother to all here, yourselves and the young ones included. I must apologize to all of them, too. I’ve stayed out of their way so far this morning . . . thinking to pay my respects to you ladies first . . . but now, with your permission, I’ll just skip outside and see the girls.”

  “You don’t have that permission,” said my sister evenly, still staring at the wall. “I have instructed the young ladies to have no communication with you.”

  He paused and watched her for a moment before replying. “All right, ma’am, if that’s the way it has to be. Perhaps you’ll pass my apologies on to them.”

  “I will give them no messages from you on any subject.”

  “All right, ma’am,” he said, smiling ruefully. “Have it your way.”

  “Furthermore, my sister has been disregarding my instructions. I intended that she be included in my order. From now on she will have no more to say to you.”

  “Anything to keep you happy, ma’am,” said he grimly. “Even if she speaks to me then, I’ll try not to listen.”

  “Also,” said Martha, “I want you out of here by noon today. It is now eight o’clock. That gives you four hours in which to practice on your crutches.”

  “And if I don’t leave by noon?”

  “Then I shall set out and bring back the first men I can find—Yankee soldiers or Confederates. I imagine either side can be persuaded to shoot you on one charge or another.”

  “Oh I don’t doubt that. They’ll believe whatever you tell them about me, you being a lady and all. Well maybe I hadn’t oughta waste as much as four hours on the crutch practice. Maybe I oughta cut the practice to an hour or two, so’s I could get a good head start down the road ahead of you in your pony cart. Now then will you permit me a bite o’ breakfast to give me the strength to begin this concentrated practice?”

  “Mattie will fix you something in the kitchen,” said
Martha.

  “I’d prefer it in here,” he said. He was smiling again but there was no humor in it. “I’d love to be served in here in the company of you fine ladies.”

  “And I say you’ll have it in the kitchen or you’ll have nothing.”

  “Oh Miss Martha,” he said in a sad voice but with the same expression. “That’s not very hospitable . . . to treat a poor lad like that on the last morning of his stay.”

  “I have no more to say to you, Mister McBurney,” my sister said, staring at the wall again as she lifted her cup of acorn coffee.

  At that moment, still smiling rigidly, he tossed his right crutch in the air and caught it by the lower end. Then he raised the crutch high and swung it down with all his might, smashing the Limoges china cup in her hand and spattering the coffee all over her dress and the tablecloth.

  “There, ma’am,” he said softly. “Do you still have nothing to say to me? Or do you need another little tap to loosen your tongue. Now, on second thought, maybe I will go out to the kitchen and eat with the darky. Come to think of it, maybe I’d rather be in her company than yours. Of course, Miss Harriet, I’m not including you in this. You and I are still friends.”

  He swung around on his crutches and moved toward the kitchen door. Then when he reached the door, he paused and turned to us again. “Just one more thing,” he said. “I won’t be leaving here at noon today. In fact I won’t be leaving at all until I’m ready to go. And I can’t say right now just when that will be. It might not be for quite a spell yet.” And he gave us that same humorless smile again, bowed slightly and entered the kitchen.

  Mattie, who had been standing to one side—petrified at his outburst—came forward now with a napkin and shakingly began to mop the table. “Miss Martha, what you want me to do ’bout him?” she quavered.

  “Give him his breakfast,” my sister replied, “and bring me another cup of coffee.” She gave Mattie the handle of the broken cup which she was still holding in her fingers.

  “Pretty soon we’re all gonna be livin in the barn and eatin outa the same one pot, if that boy is gonna be allowed to keep breakin up this house,” Mattie mumbled as she went off.