The Beguiled

by Thomas Cullinan

  “Oh I wasn’t intendin to discuss them,” he smiled, “only statin them is all. What I mean is I think you’ve got a good strong will inside you that lets you carry out anything you set your heart to do. Some people might be deceived by the timid look of you, but not me. I know you for what you are, Miss Harriet, and I admire you for it. Help me, Miss Harriet.”

  “Help you to do what?”

  “To stay here. That’s all. I’d like to stay here for a while.”

  “You seem to be doing that without anyone’s help.”

  “But I know I can’t keep on like this for very long. Without the permission of her royal highness—no offense, intended, ma’am—I can’t stay on here much longer. I don’t mind admitting that to you, Miss Harriet. I was never one to stay any place where I wasn’t wanted. Anyway all I want from you, ma’am, is to put in a good word or two for me with your sister so’s she’ll change her mind about me. I’m really not a bad fella at heart you know, Miss Harriet.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” I answered, “and I’m equally sure my sister knows that too, but none the less she’s angry with you and I’m afraid she won’t be quick to forgive you.”

  “But maybe if you asked her. If you kept after her you maybe could convince her that I was truly sorry and that I never intended her or any of you any harm. Then maybe things here could go back to the way they were before. I could be of great use to you around here, you know. I could more than pay for what I eat by the work I’d be doin around the place. I’ve got two good arms and a strong back and I’m learnin to get around very well now on these two old pegs. I’m very quick to learn anything I put my mind to, Miss Harriet. All you need to do is tell me once or show me and then you can forget about it, whatever it is—choppin wood or trimmin hedges or plantin corn or paintin fences—anything like that I can do, anything at all. You want a loose board nailed down or a clock repaired or a well dug? I can handle all them jobs for you. Now I won’t say I’d want to stay on here forever—just a year or so, maybe, and then we could take another look at the situation and see how well it had turned out, if I had done everything expected of me, if I had paid my way. Maybe just till the war was over I could stay and then we could examine the thing again, how does that strike you, Miss Harriet? Will you help me, Miss Harriet, will you ask her to let me stay?”

  “She seems to be doing that.”

  “I mean I’d like for her to say to me that I’m welcome. I’d like her to be friendly to me again and talk to me and let the girls talk to me. Would you ask her if she’d do that, ma’am?”

  “I’m afraid she won’t listen to any such request, from me or anyone else.”

  “If you told her it’s what you want . . . that you’d like me to stay.”

  “I’m not sure that would be true, at least not any more,” I told him steadily.

  “Ah Miss Harriet,” he said, putting on a very shocked expression. “You can’t mean that. I’ve been countin on you. You’re the one I was sure would always stand by me.”

  “Whatever made you think that?”

  “Why because we’re so much alike, I guess. You said that yourself one time.”

  “Did I? When did I say that?”

  “Well maybe it was I that said it, but I’m certain you agreed. We’re alike because we like the same things, we decided, don’t you remember . . . good poems and fine wine and all kinds of nice things like that.”

  “Whoever told you I had a liking for wine, Mister McBurney?”

  “Why you did . . . didn’t you?”

  “If I did, I must have been temporarily out of my senses. It’s hardly something that a lady would say, now is it—that she had a craving for wine.”

  “Oh come on now, Miss Harriet,” said my visitor. “That isn’t what I meant at all. I only meant that you appreciated good wine, that you had a knack of knowin the good stuff from the bad.”

  “And I suppose I have become an expert by consuming a lot of it?”

  “No, no. . . .”

  “You protest too feebly, Mister McBurney. Now what about this other interest you say we share. Have you such a passion for poetry, Mister McBurney?”

  “Oh, yes, I told you that before . . . Shakespeare and all that.”

  “That’s right, I remember now. You recited sonnet number one hundred sixteen and you told me that you had read the works of Shakespeare many times when you were a boy. Then one evening at dinner you told us the story of Macbeth and very amusingly too.”

  “Thank you, Miss Harriet. It’s one of my favorites.”

  “And what’s another, Mister McBurney?”

  “Another what, ma’am?”

  “You used the plural. What’s another play of Shakespeare’s that you like?”

  “Oh I like them all I guess. It’s hard to choose sometimes, don’t you know?”

  “Name just one other than Macbeth.”

  “Let’s see now . . . there’s so many of them. . . .”

  “Volpone, perhaps . . . or Doctor Faustus?”

  “Yes, those are good ones.”

  “The first was written by Ben Johnson and the second by Christopher Marlowe. Well if you can’t name another Shakespeare play, perhaps you can recite another sonnet for me.”

  “It’s only the one that sticks in my memory.”

  “Then recite that one again.”

  “Let’s see now . . . how does it go?”

  “Those lines that I have writ before do lie . . . even those that said I could not love you dearer.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Yet then my judgment knew no reason why my most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.”

  “Keep it up, ma’am, you’re doin fine.”

  “Thank you. Of course that’s sonnet one hundred fifteen and not sixteen. I’m afraid you’re a charlatan, Mister McBurney. I think you came upon a copy of the works of Shakespeare in our parlor—I’ve been told by one of the students that it was missing from the library shelf for a time—and I think you read Macbeth and memorized the one sonnet and retained it for a day or two and now you’ve forgotten it.”

  “But why would I want to do a thing like that, Miss Harriet?”

  “You tell me, Mister McBurney. You’re the only one who knows. I might guess it was to portray yourself in a way which you thought might be attractive to us, particularly to me.”

  “Why particularly to you, ma’am?” He just stood there, smiling, not at all abashed. In fact it was I who now began to grow embarrassed.

  “Well perhaps you weren’t trying to win me over then,” I said, “any more than you were trying to win the others.”

  “Ah God, to tell you the truth I was, Miss Harriet. The whole thing was done specially for you. You were quite right, ma’am. Before I landed in your parlor, I’da prob’ly told you Shakespeare was a nervous Indian if you’d’ve asked me to identify the gentleman. The fact that he was English would be enough to bar him from bein read at Irish firesides and besides we got better poets of our own. But anyway I did try to make you think I had some learning. I found the book and I read that play and several of the poems and I picked out the one and studied it. Because I did so want you to like me.”

  “I’d be much more apt to like you if you hadn’t tried to deceive me,” I informed him.

  “I realize that now,” he said solemnly, “and I swear I’ll never do anything like that again. In fact, I’ll read all those plays and poems of Shakespeare’s now and all the other good books you’ve got in the house besides. Just give me a month or two at it and you’ll see what a polished fella I’ll become. Maybe you could even spare an hour or so now and then to give me a bit o’ help on the side, just so’s I know the books to study the hardest, don’t you see. I can memorize anything at all, o’ course, but it’s true I don’t always understand it. That’s where you could help me most, by ex
plainin it all to me. Oh I’ll be your prize pupil, Miss Harriet. You’ll be awful proud of me.”

  “Why is it so important to you that I like you and be proud of you?” I asked.

  “Because I have a great affection for you. I’m in love with you is the way I suppose I ought to put it.”

  He stared at me unblinking as he said this, without any trace of hesitancy and as matter of factly as though he were discussing the weather or the condition of the garden. Needless to say, my reaction was not as calm as his statement.

  “I think you had better go back downstairs now, Mister McBurney,” were the first words I could manage.

  “Have I offended you?” he wanted to know.

  “You’ve disturbed me greatly,” I said.

  “Oh that’s not so bad then,” said he with great confidence. “It was to be expected that you’d be shocked a bit at the news, since I’ve been around here all this time and never mentioned it before. I don’t mind you feelin a bit nervous about it, as long as you’re not insulted.”

  “I’m not insulted,” I said, “but please go.”

  “You wouldn’t be feelin the same way about me, I suppose. Though I suppose you wouldn’t want to admit it if you did—on such short notice and all.”

  “Mister McBurney,” said I more heatedly, “I happen to be very close to a generation older than you are.”

  “You don’t look it at all,” he persisted. “And that don’t matter anyway. You’re as young in heart as any of your girls here and a lot more attractive than the whole pack of them.”

  “Mister McBurney,” I said, close to anger now, “I simply cannot continue this conversation.”

  “It’s because of the side I been on maybe that you don’t want to declare yourself, is that it, ma’am? Because it might be thought you were consortin with the enemy. You’re a bit nervous, maybe, about revealin your true feelings right now.”

  “Mister McBurney, if you please,” I half shouted.

  He grinned now. “That’s another good reason for me to wait around here ’til the war is over. Then we can bring the whole thing out into the open, without any worry about the social consequences, eh?”

  “Why do you persist in this, Mister McBurney?” I cried. “I have never said. . . .”

  “You’ve never said nothin, ma’am. I’d never tell a soul you’ve said anything at all about me. We’ll just keep it a secret between ourselves, if that’s the way you want it.”

  “Please, Mister McBurney, I beg you. . . .”

  “Sit down, won’t you, ma’am. Sit right down there, why don’t you?”

  He advanced toward me on his crutches and I retreated to the small settee behind me. “You must go . . . we both must go downstairs,” I told him even as I obeyed him and sat down. I was very frightened, I remember, but I was acting as though I was hypnotized. My wisest course would have been to scream for help right then, I suppose, but two things prevented it—one the fear of him and the other the thought that he had really done nothing worse than compliment me in a silly, boyish fashion and ridiculous though that was, to raise an alarm now about it would make it seem even more ridiculous, and moreover put him in a worse position in my sister’s eyes than the one he already held.

  “There now,” said he as he stacked his crutches and sat down beside me, “that’s much better. Now stop your tremblin, Miss Harriet. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. As I told you before, all I want of you right now is your good regard. I’m sure something better will come in time if we start with that much now.”

  “Mister McBurney, you’re a very young man—just a boy in fact,” I told him, “while I’m a woman of near middle age. What do you think could possibly come of this?”

  “Is that all that bothers you?” he wanted to know. “My age?”

  “No, it’s not all,” I answered as gently as I could. “Even if we were of the same age, difficulties would still exist. The biggest difficulty of all is the fact that I don’t feel about you as you apparently do about me.”

  “You will,” he said with great confidence. “Just give me time. I’m going to repay you in full for the generous way you’ve treated me. Oh, Miss Harriet, if you ever knew how grateful I was for your comin to me on that first morning here and puttin your hand on my forehead the way you did and then speakin to me that way in your soft little voice. Do you recall that day at all, Miss Harriet, and the things you said to me? It was then you told me—or at least I thought you told me—of the things we had in common. Course maybe I was only dreamin your words from the wantin you to say them and also the terrible weak state I was in. For instance one thing I seem to remember is you tellin me about the Chinese statues and the old-Spanish lace you have. Now was it that first morning you told me about those things or was it some other time or was it imagination altogether? Do you have those things, Miss Harriet? Could you show them to me if you do?”

  “Yes, I have them but I’d prefer to show them to you at another time.”

  “All right, ma’am, as long as I know I wasn’t dreamin entirely about our conversations. We’ll spend our time today on other matters then, shall we—namely you and me, eh?”

  He took my hand then and squeezed it—not brutally, I think, but then I was so paralyzed with fright by that time that I probably would have felt no pain in the hand had he crushed it.

  “Do you remember one other thing that happened that first morning, Miss Harriet?” he went on. “Do you recall my tellin you how the landlord’s daughter came to see me when I was a small boy and sick that time at home and she took care of me like you did and I kissed her. And I showed you how I did it. Does that come back to you?”

  It had never escaped my mind but I didn’t say so. I couldn’t even move as he put his arms around me and demonstrated the act again. It was done very gently—expertly, I suppose—and it was over before I could pull away.

  “Mister McBurney,” I said when I could speak, “you must never do a thing like that again.”

  “You told me that the other time,” he grinned. “It didn’t hurt, did it . . . it wasn’t painful, was it? Ah Miss Harriet, you’re a handsome little lady and I don’t care if you’re twenty five or fifty, but I see you’re gonna take some trainin. Tell me, Miss Harriet, was there ever anybody who could kiss you and make you like it?”

  “There may have been once,” I admitted. I would have agreed to anything in the hope of getting rid of him.

  “Who is the person?” he persisted. “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Is he dead? Was he killed in the war?”

  “He’s gone,” I said. “I don’t know where he is. Now please . . . leave me, Mister McBurney.”

  “Wait a bit. I have to explain something else to you. Why do you think I came here in the first place, Miss Harriet?”

  “You were lost in the woods, weren’t you, and Amelia Dabney found you,” I said without interest.

  “That’s what she and everybody else thinks. I wasn’t really lost at all. I knew exactly where I was going. Oh it’s true I was wounded in the battle and I had stopped to rest a while when Amelia came along but I’d’ve been on my feet again in a moment without her help and I’d’ve been on my way to . . . where do you think, Miss Harriet?”

  “I haven’t any idea.”

  “Here, right here. This is where I was headed for—this very house,” he said triumphantly. “And do you know why? Can you guess at all why I was comin here?”

  “No,” I said wearily.

  “To see you. I was comin here to Farnsworth for no other reason but to see you.”

  “But why? You didn’t even know me.”

  “Oh but I had heard about you, my darlin. I knew what you looked like and what a dear sweet person you were and as a consequence I was half gone on you before I met you.”

  “Who told you about me?” I
demanded. “Who described me to you?”

  “That’s the most astoundin part of all. It was someone who knew you very well—someone who felt very close to you even as I do now. It was nobody other than your intended.”

  “My intended?”

  “That’s right,” he asserted, “the fella you were gonna marry. Let’s see, what name did he give me now? Was it Harry Wilson? No, Howard Wilson. No, that’s not quite it. Howard Winslow it was . . . yes I’m sure that’s the name.”

  “And where did you meet this Howard Winslow,” I inquired.

  “On the field of battle, ma’am,” said he gazing at me steadily. “It was back there beyond the woods the morning after we had crossed that river called the Rapidan. The battle had just begun and I was moving forward through the brush alongside my pals. The smoke was so thick you couldn’t see the nose of your bayonet or your own legs from the knees down, and if you were separated by as much as an arm’s length from the fella next to you, you were lost in a little chokin blisterin world of your own. O’ course you had the comfort of knowin there was still civilization outside the smoke because the grape and cannister and minié balls kept whizzin and there was plenty of bangin and shoutin and screamin goin on all over the place. Well we had been advancin like that for maybe five minutes—though it seemed more like five years—when I began to wonder if I was the only one of our company still on his feet. They could all be dead and lyin fifty yards back, I was startin to think, and here’s this poor Irish boy strollin along all by himself and maybe it won’t be twenty more paces before he bumps into General Lee havin his breakfast. ‘Good mornin to you, General,’ I decided I’d say. ‘Greetin’s to ye from the old sod and how’s the war goin for ye this fine summer mornin? It’s not goin at all well for me so with your permission I’ll just draw up a chair and join ye in a plate of rashers.’

  “And so,” McBurney went on, “I went along like that, talkin to myself, don’t you see, mainly to keep my teeth from chatterin to bits with the terrible fright I was in every time one of those chunks of iron flew past my ear. Then all at once I stumbled and I thought for a second I’d been hit, but it was only somethin on the ground that tripped me. I went headlong over it down into the smoke and I must have knocked my head against the ground or maybe it was the side of a tree because I was dazed for a moment or two, just long enough for the rest of my pals—or what there was left of them—to move along without me.