[Part 27] "Gone With The Wind" by Margaret Mitchell

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐗.

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

SOMETHING WAS WRONG WITH THE WORLD, a somber, frightening wrongness that pervaded everything like a dark impenetrable mist, stealthily closing around Scarlett.

This wrongness went even deeper than Bonnie’s death, for now the first unbearable anguish was fading into resigned acceptance of her loss.

Yet this eerie sense of disaster to come persisted, as though something black and hooded stood just at her shoulder, as though the ground beneath her feet might turn to quicksand as she trod upon it.

She had never before known this type of fear.

All her life her feet had been firmly planted in common sense and the only things she had ever feared had been the things she could see, injury, hunger, poverty, loss of Ashley’s love.

Unanalytical she was trying to analyze now and with no success.

She had lost her dearest child but she could stand that, somehow, as she had stood other crushing losses.

She had her health, she had as much money as she could wish and she still had Ashley, though she saw less and less of him these days.

Even the constraint which had been between them since the day of Melanie’s ill-starred surprise party did not worry her, for she knew it would pass.

No, her fear was not of pain or hunger or loss of love.

Those fears had never weighed her down as this feeling of wrongness was doing—this blighting fear that was oddly like that which she knew in her old nightmare, a thick, swimming mist through which she ran with bursting heart, a lost child seeking a haven that was hidden from her.

She remembered how Rhett had always been able to laugh her out of her fears.

She remembered the comfort of his broad brown chest and his strong arms.

And so she turned to him with eyes that really saw him for the first time in weeks.

And the change she saw shocked her.

This man was not going to laugh, nor was he going to comfort her.

For some time after Bonnie’s death she had been too angry with him, too preoccupied with her own grief to do more than speak politely in front of the servants.

She had been too busy remembering the swift running patter of Bonnie’s feet and her bubbling laugh to think that he, too, might be remembering and with pain even greater than her own.

Throughout these weeks they had met and spoken as courteously as strangers meeting in the impersonal halls of a hotel, sharing the same roof, the same table, but never sharing the thoughts of each other.

Now that she was frightened and lonely, she would have broken through this barrier if she could, but she found that he was holding her at arms’ length, as though he wished to have no words with her that went beneath the surface.

Now that her anger was fading she wanted to tell him that she held him guiltless of Bonnie’s death.

She wanted to cry in his arms and say that she, too, had been overly proud of the child’s horsemanship, overly indulgent to her wheedlings.

Now she would willingly have humbled herself and admitted that she had only hurled that accusation at him out of her misery, hoping by hurting him to alleviate her own hurt.

But there never seemed an opportune moment.

He looked at her out of black blank eyes that made no opportunity for her to speak.

And apologies, once postponed, become harder and harder to make, and finally impossible.

She wondered why this should be.

Rhett was her husband and between them there was the unbreakable bond of two people who have shared the same bed, begotten and borne a loved child and seen that child, too soon, laid away in the dark.

Only in the arms of the father of that child could she find comfort, in the exchange of memories and grief that might hurt at first but would help to heal.

But, now, as matters stood between them, she would as soon go to the arms of a complete stranger.

He was seldom at home.

When they did sit down to supper together, he was usually drunk.

He was not drinking as he had formerly, becoming increasingly more polished and biting as the liquor took hold of him, saying amusing, malicious things that made her laugh in spite of herself.

Now he was silently, morosely drunk and, as the evenings progressed, soddenly drunk.

Sometimes, in the early hours of the dawn, she heard him ride into the back yard and beat on the door of the servants’ house so that Pork might help him up the back stairs and put him to bed.

Put him to bed!

Rhett who had always drunk others under the table without turning a hair and then put them to bed.

He was untidy now, where once he had been well groomed, and it took all Pork’s scandalized arguing even to make him change his linen before supper.

Whisky was showing in his face and the hard line of his long jaw was being obscured under an unhealthy bloat and puffs rising under his bloodshot eyes.

His big body with its hard swelling muscles looked soft and slack and his waist line began to thicken.

Often he did not come home at all or even send word that he would be away overnight.

Of course, he might be snoring drunkenly in some room above a saloon, but Scarlett always believed that he was at Belle Watling’s house on these occasions.

Once she had seen Belle in a store, a coarse overblown woman now, with most of her good looks gone.

But, for all her paint and flashy clothes, she was buxom and almost motherly looking.

Instead of dropping her eyes or glaring defiantly, as did other light women when confronted by ladies, Belle gave her stare for stare, searching her face with an intent, almost pitying look that brought a flush to Scarlett’s cheek.

But she could not accuse him now, could not rage at him, demand fidelity or try to shame him, any more than she could bring herself to apologize for accusing him of Bonnie’s death.

She was clutched by a bewildered apathy, an unhappiness that she could not understand, an unhappiness that went deeper than anything she had ever known.

She was lonely and she could never remember being so lonely before.

Perhaps she had never had the time to be very lonely until now.

She was lonely and afraid and there was no one to whom she could turn, no one except Melanie.

For now, even Mammy, her mainstay, had gone back to Tara.

Gone permanently.

Mammy gave no explanation for her departure.

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

Her tired old eyes looked sadly at Scarlett when she asked for the train fare home.

To Scarlett’s tears and pleading that she stay, Mammy only answered: “Look ter me lak Miss Ellen say ter me: ‘Mammy, come home. Yo’ wuk done finish.’

So Ah’s gwine home.”

Rhett, who had listened to the talk, gave Mammy the money and patted her arm.

“You’re right, Mammy. Miss Ellen is right.

Your work here is done.

Go home.

Let me know if you ever need anything.”

And as Scarlett broke into renewed indignant commands: “Hush, you fool!

Let her go!

Why should anyone want to stay in this house—now?”

There was such a savage bright glitter in his eyes when he spoke that Scarlett shrank from him, frightened.

“Dr. Meade, do you think he can—can have lost his mind?” she questioned afterwards, driven to the doctor by her own sense of helplessness.

“No,” said the doctor, “but he’s drinking like a fish and will kill himself if he keeps it up.

He loved the child, Scarlett, and I guess he drinks to forget about her.

No, my advice to you, Miss, is to give him another baby just as quickly as you can.”

“Hah!” thought Scarlett bitterly, as she left his office.

That was easier said than done.

She would gladly have another child, several children, if they would take that look out of Rhett’s eyes and fill up the aching spaces in her own heart.

A boy who had Rhett’s dark handsomeness and another little girl.

Oh, for another girl, pretty and gay and willful and full of laughter, not like the giddy-brained Ella.

Why, oh, why couldn’t God have taken Ella if He had to take one of her children?

Ella was no comfort to her, now that Bonnie was gone.

But Rhett did not seem to want any other children.

At least he never came to her bedroom, though now the door was never locked and usually invitingly ajar.

He did not seem to care.

He did not seem to care for anything now except whisky and that blowzy red-haired woman.

He was bitter now, where he had been pleasantly jeering, brutal where his thrusts had once been tempered with humor.

After Bonnie died, many of the good ladies of the neighborhood who had been won over to him by his charming manners with his daughter were anxious to show him kindness.

They stopped him on the street to give him their sympathy and spoke to him from over their hedges, saying that they understood.

But now that Bonnie, the reason for his good manners, was gone the manners went too.

He cut the ladies and their well-meant condolences off shortly, rudely.

But, oddly enough, the ladies were not offended.

They understood, or thought they understood.

When he rode home in the twilight almost too drunk to stay in the saddle, scowling at those who spoke to him, the ladies said “Poor thing!” and redoubled their efforts to be kind and gentle.

They felt very sorry for him, broken hearted and riding home to no better comfort than Scarlett.

Everybody knew how cold and heartless she was.

Everybody was appalled at the seeming ease with which she had recovered from Bonnie’s death, never realizing or caring to realize the effort that lay behind that seeming recovery.

Scarlett had the town’s dislike and, for once, she would have welcomed the sympathy of old friends.

Now, none of her old friends came to the house, except Aunt Pitty, Melanie and Ashley.

Only the new friends came calling in their shining carriages, anxious to tell her of their sympathy, eager to divert her with gossip about other new friends in whom she was not at all interested.

All these “new people,” strangers, every one!

They didn’t know her.

They would never know her.

They had no realization of what her life had been before she reached her present safe eminence in her mansion on Peachtree Street.

They didn’t care to talk about what their lives had been before they attained stiff brocades and victorias with fine teams of horses.

They didn’t know of her struggles, her privations, all the things that made this great house and pretty clothes and silver and receptions worth having.

They didn’t know. They didn’t care, these people from God-knows-where who seemed to live always on the surface of things, who had no common memories of war and hunger and fighting, who had no common roots going down into the same red earth.

Now in her loneliness, she would have liked to while away the afternoons with Maybelle or Fanny or Mrs. Elsing or Mrs. Whiting or even that redoubtable old warrior, Mrs. Merriwether.

Or Mrs. Bonnell or—or any of her old friends and neighbors.

For they knew.

They had known war and terror and fire, had seen dear ones dead before their time; they had hungered and been ragged, had lived with the wolf at the door.

And they had rebuilt fortune from ruin.

It would be a comfort to sit with Maybelle, remembering that Maybelle had buried a baby, dead in the mad flight before Sherman.

There would be solace in Fanny’s presence, knowing that she and Fanny both had lost husbands in the black days of martial law.

It would be grim fun to laugh with Mrs. Elsing, recalling the old lady’s face as she flogged her horse through Five Points the day Atlanta fell, her loot from the commissary jouncing from her carriage.

It would be pleasant to match stories with Mrs. Merriwether, now secure on the proceeds of her bakery, pleasant to say: “Do you remember how bad things were right after the surrender?

Do you remember when we didn’t know where our next pair of shoes was coming from?

And look at us now!”

Yes, it would be pleasant.

Now she understood why when two ex-Confederates met, they talked of the war with so much relish, with pride, with nostalgia.

Those had been days that tried their hearts but they had come through them.

They were veterans.

She was a veteran too, but she had no cronies with whom she could refight old battles.

Oh, to be with her own kind of people again, those people who had been through the same things and knew how they hurt—and yet how great a part of you they were!

But, somehow, these people had slipped away.

She realized that it was her own fault.

She had never cared until now—now that Bonnie was dead and she was lonely and afraid and she saw across her shining dinner table a swarthy sodden stranger disintegrating under her eyes.

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐗𝐈.

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

SCARLETT WAS IN MARIETTA when Rhett’s urgent telegram came.

There was a train leaving for Atlanta in ten minutes and she caught it, carrying no baggage except her reticule and leaving Wade and Ella at the hotel with Prissy.

Atlanta was only twenty miles away but the train crawled interminably through the wet early autumn afternoon, stopping at every bypath for passengers.

Panic stricken at Rhett’s message, mad for speed, Scarlett almost screamed at every halt.

Down the road lumbered the train through forests faintly, tiredly gold, past red hillsides still scarred with serpentine breastworks, past old battery emplacements and weed-grown craters, down the road over which Johnston’s men had retreated so bitterly, fighting every step of the way.

Each station, each crossroad the conductor called was the name of a battle, the site of a skirmish.

Once they would have stirred Scarlett to memories of terror but now she had no thought for them.

Rhett’s message had been: “Mrs. Wilkes ill.

Come home immediately.”

Twilight had fallen when the train pulled into Atlanta and a light misting rain obscured the town.

The gas street lamps glowed dully, blobs of yellow in the fog.

Rhett was waiting for her at the depot with the carriage.

The very sight of his face frightened her more than his telegram.

She had never seen it so expressionless before.

“She isn’t—” she cried.

“No.

She’s still alive.”

Rhett assisted her into the carriage.

“To Mrs. Wilkes’ house and as fast as you can go,” he ordered the coachman.

“What’s the matter with her?

I didn’t know she was ill.

She looked all right last week.

Did she have an accident?

Oh, Rhett, it isn’t really as serious as you—”

“She’s dying,” said Rhett and his voice had no more expression than his face.

“She wants to see you.”

“Not Melly!

Oh, not Melly!

What’s happened to her?”

“She’s had a miscarriage.”

“A—a—mis—but, Rhett, she—” Scarlett floundered.

This information on top of the horror of his announcement took her breath away.

“You did not know she was going to have a baby?”

She could not even shake her head.

“Ah, well. I suppose not.

I don’t think she told anyone.

She wanted it to be a surprise.

But I knew.”

“You knew?

But surely she didn’t tell you!”

“She didn’t have to tell me.

I knew.

She’s been so—happy these last two months I knew it couldn’t mean anything else.”

“But Rhett, the doctor said it would kill her to have another baby!”

“It has killed her,” said Rhett.

And to the coachman: “For God’s sake, can’t you drive faster?”

“But, Rhett, she can’t be dying!

I—I didn’t and I—”

“She hasn’t your strength.

She’s never had any strength.

She’s never had anything but heart.”

The carriage rocked to a standstill in front of the flat little house and Rhett handed her out.

Trembling, frightened, a sudden feeling of loneliness upon her, she clasped his arm.

“You’re coming in, Rhett?”

“No,” he said and got back into the carriage.

She flew up the front steps, across the porch and threw open the door.

There, in the yellow lamplight were Ashley, Aunt Pitty and India.

Scarlett thought: “What’s India doing here?

Melanie told her never to set foot in this house again.”

The three rose at the sight of her, Aunt Pitty biting her trembling lips to still them, India staring at her, grief stricken and without hate.

Ashley looked dull as a sleepwalker and, as he came to her and put his hand upon her arm, he spoke like a sleepwalker.

“She asked for you,” he said. “She asked for you.”

“Can I see her now?” She turned toward the closed door of Melanie’s room.

“No. Dr. Meade is in there now.

I’m glad you’ve come, Scarlett.”

“I came as quickly as I could.”

Scarlett shed her bonnet and her cloak.

“The train—

She isn’t really—

Tell me, she’s better, isn’t she, Ashley?

Speak to me!

Don’t look like that!

She isn’t really—”

“She kept asking for you,” said Ashley and looked her in the eyes.

And, in his eyes she saw the answer to her question.

For a moment, her heart stood still and then a queer fear, stronger than anxiety, stronger than grief, began to beat in her breast.

It can’t be true, she thought vehemently, trying to push back the fear.

Doctors make mistakes.

I won’t think it’s true.

I can’t let myself think it’s true.

I’ll scream if I do.

I must think of something else.

“I don’t believe it!” she cried stormily, looking into the three drawn faces as though defying them to contradict her.

“And why didn’t Melanie tell me?

I’d never have gone to Marietta if I’d known!”

Ashley’s eyes awoke and were tormented.

“She didn’t tell anyone, Scarlett, especially not you.

She was afraid you’d scold her if you knew.

She wanted to wait three—till she thought it safe and then surprise you all and laugh and say how wrong the doctors had been.

And she was so happy.

You know how she was about babies—how much she’s wanted a little girl.

And everything went so well until—and then for no reason at all—”

The door of Melanie’s room opened quietly and Dr. Meade came out into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

He stood for a moment, his gray beard sunk on his chest, and looked at the suddenly frozen four.

His gaze fell last on Scarlett.

As he came toward her, she saw that there was grief in his eyes and also dislike and contempt that flooded her frightened heart with guilt.

“So you finally got here,” he said.

Before she could answer, Ashley started toward the closed door.

“Not you, yet,” said the doctor.

“She wants to speak to Scarlett.”

“Doctor,” said India, putting a hand on his sleeve.

Though her voice was toneless, it plead more loudly than words.

“Let me see her for a moment.

I’ve been here since this morning, waiting, but she—

Let me see her for a moment.

I want to tell her—must tell her—that I was wrong about—something.”

She did not look at Ashley or Scarlett as she spoke, but Dr. Meade allowed his cold glance to fall on Scarlett.

“I’ll see, Miss India,” he said briefly.

“But only if you’ll give me your word not to use up her strength telling her you were wrong.

She knows you were wrong and it will only worry her to hear you apologize.”

Pitty began, timidly: “Please, Dr. Meade—”

“Miss Pitty, you know you’d scream and faint.”

Pitty drew up her stout little body and gave the doctor glance for glance.

Her eyes were dry and there was dignity in every curve.

“Well, all right, honey, a little later,” said the doctor, more kindly.

“Come, Scarlett.”

They tiptoed down the hall to the closed door and the doctor put his hand on Scarlett’s shoulder in a hard grip.

“Now, Miss,” he whispered briefly, “no hysterics and no deathbed confessions from you or, before God, I will wring your neck!

Don’t give me any of your innocent stares.

You know what I mean.

Miss Melly is going to die easily and you aren’t going to ease your conscience by telling her anything about Ashley.

I’ve never harmed a woman yet, but if you say anything now—you’ll answer to me.”

He opened the door before she could answer, pushed her into the room and closed the door behind her.

The little room, cheaply furnished in black walnut, was in semidarkness, the lamp shaded with a newspaper.

It was as small and prim a room as a schoolgirl’s, the narrow little low-backed bed, the plain net curtains looped back, the clean faded rag rugs on the floor, were so different from the lavishness of Scarlett’s own bedroom with its towering carved furniture, pink brocade draperies and rose-strewn carpet.

Melanie lay in the bed, her figure under the counterpane shrunken and flat like a little girl’s.

Two black braids fell on either side of her face and her closed eyes were sunken in twin purple circles.

At the sight of her Scarlett stood transfixed, leaning against the door.

Despite the gloom of the room, she could see that Melanie’s face was of a waxy yellow color.

It was drained of life’s blood and there was a pinched look about the nose.

Until that moment, Scarlett had hoped Dr. Meade was mistaken.

But now she knew.

In the hospitals during the war she had seen too many faces wearing this pinched look not to know what it inevitably presaged.

Melanie was dying, but for a moment Scarlett’s mind refused to take it in.

Melanie could not die.

It was impossible for her to die.

God wouldn’t let her die when she, Scarlett, needed her so much.

Never before had it occurred to her that she needed Melanie.

But now, the truth surged in, down to the deepest recesses of her soul.

She had relied on Melanie, even as she had relied upon herself, and she had never known it.

Now, Melanie was dying and Scarlett knew she could not get along without her.

Now, as she tiptoed across the room toward the quiet figure, panic clutching at her heart, she knew that Melanie had been her sword and her shield, her comfort and her strength.

“I must hold her!

I can’t let her get away!” she thought and sank beside the bed with a rustle of skirts.

Hastily she grasped the limp hand lying on the coverlet and was frightened anew by its chill.

“It’s me, Melly,” she said.

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

Melanie’s eyes opened a slit and then, as if having satisfied herself that it was really Scarlett, she closed them again.

After a pause she drew a breath and whispered: “Promise me?”

“Oh, anything!”

“Beau—look after him.”

Scarlett could only nod, a strangled feeling in her throat, and she gently pressed the hand she held by way of assent.

“I give him to you.”

There was the faintest trace of a smile.

“I gave him to you, once before—’member?—before he was born.”

Did she remember?

Could she ever forget that time?

Almost as clearly as if that dreadful day had returned, she could feel the stifling heat of the September noon, remember her terror of the Yankees, hear the tramp of the retreating troops, recall Melanie’s voice begging her to take the baby should she die—remember, too, how she had hated Melanie that day and hoped that she would die.

“I’ve killed her,” she thought, in superstitious agony.

“I wished so often she would die and God heard me and is punishing me.”

“Oh, Melly, don’t talk like that!

You know you’ll pull through this—”

“No. Promise.”

Scarlett gulped.

“You know I promise. I’ll treat him like he was my own boy.”

“College?” asked Melanie’s faint flat voice.

“Oh, yes!

The university and Harvard and Europe and anything he wants—and—and—a pony—and music lessons—

Oh, please, Melly, do try!

Do make an effort!”

The silence fell again and in Melanie’s face there were signs of a struggle to gather strength to speak again.

“Ashley,” she said.

“Ashley and you—”

Her voice faltered into stillness.

At the mention of Ashley’s name, Scarlett’s heart stood still, cold as granite within her.

Melanie had known all the time.

Scarlett dropped her head on the coverlet and a sob that would not rise caught her throat with a cruel hand.

Melanie knew.

Scarlett was beyond shame now, beyond any feeling save a wild remorse that she had hurt this gentle creature throughout the long years.

Melanie had known—and yet, she had remained her loyal friend.

Oh, if she could only live those years over again!

She would never even let her eyes meet those of Ashley.

“O God,” she prayed rapidly, “do, please, let her live!

I’ll make it up to her.

I’ll be so good to her.

I’ll never even speak to Ashley again as long as I live, if You’ll only let her get well!”

“Ashley,” said Melanie feebly and her fingers reached out to touch Scarlett’s bowed head.

Her thumb and forefinger tugged with no more strength than that of a baby at Scarlett’s hair.

Scarlett knew what that meant, knew Melanie wanted her to look up.

But she could not, could not meet Melanie’s eyes and read that knowledge in them.

“Ashley,” Melanie whispered again and Scarlett gripped herself.

When she looked God in the face on the Day of Judgment and read her sentence in His eyes, it would not be as bad as this.

Her soul cringed but she raised her head.

She saw only the same dark loving eyes, sunken and drowsy with death, the same tender mouth tiredly fighting pain for breath.

No reproach was there, no accusation and no fear—only an anxiety that she might not find strength for words.

For a moment Scarlett was too stunned to even feel relief.

Then, as she held Melanie’s hand more closely, a flood of warm gratitude to God swept over her and, for the first time since her childhood, she said an humble unselfish prayer.

“Thank You, God. I know I’m not worth it but thank You for not letting her know.”

“What about Ashley, Melly?”

“You’ll—look after him?”

“Oh, yes.”

“He catches cold—so easily.”

There was a pause.

“Look after—his business—you understand?”

“Yes, I understand. I will.”

She made a great effort.

“Ashley isn’t—practical.”

Only death could have forced that disloyalty from Melanie.

“Look after him, Scarlett—but—don’t ever let him know.”

“I’ll look after him and the business too, and I’ll never let him know.

I’ll just kind of suggest things to him.”

Melanie managed a small smile but it was a triumphant one as her eyes met Scarlett’s again.

Their glance sealed the bargain that the protection of Ashley Wilkes from a too harsh world was passing from one woman to another and that Ashley’s masculine pride should never be humbled by this knowledge.

Now the struggle went out of the tired face as though with Scarlett’s promise, ease had come to her.

“You’re so smart—so brave—always been so good to me—”

At these words, the sob came freely to Scarlett’s throat and she clapped her hand over her mouth.

Now, she was going to bawl like a child and cry out: “I’ve been a devil!

I’ve wronged you so!

I never did anything for you!

It was all for Ashley.”

She rose to her feet abruptly, sinking her teeth into her thumb to regain her control.

Rhett’s words came back to her again, “She loves you.

Let that be your cross.”

Well, the cross was heavier now.

It was bad enough that she had tried by every art to take Ashley from her.

But now it was worse that Melanie, who had trusted her blindly through life, was laying the same love and trust on her in death.

No, she could not speak.

She could not even say again: “Make an effort to live.”

She must let her go easily, without a struggle, without tears, without sorrow.

The door opened slightly and Dr. Meade stood on the threshold, beckoning imperiously.

Scarlett bent over the bed, choking back her tears and taking Melanie’s hand, laid it against her cheek.

“Good night,” she said, and her voice was steadier than she thought it possibly could be.

“Promise me—” came the whisper, very softly now.

“Anything, darling.”

“Captain Butler—be kind to him.

He—loves you so.”

“Rhett?” thought Scarlett, bewildered, and the words meant nothing to her.

“Yes, indeed,” she said automatically and, pressing a light kiss on the hand, laid it back on the bed.

“Tell the ladies to come in immediately,” whispered the doctor as she passed through the door.

Through blurred eyes she saw India and Pitty follow the doctor into the room, holding their skirts close to their sides to keep them from rustling.

The door closed behind them and the house was still.

Ashley was nowhere to be seen.

Scarlett leaned her head against the wall, like a naughty child in a corner, and rubbed her aching throat.

Behind that door, Melanie was going and, with her, the strength upon which she had relied unknowingly for so many years.

Why, oh, why, had she not realized before this how much she loved and needed Melanie?

But who would have thought of small plain Melanie as a tower of strength?

Melanie who was shy to tears before strangers, timid about raising her voice in an opinion of her own, fearful of the disapproval of old ladies.

Melanie who lacked the courage to say Boo to a goose?

And yet—

Scarlett’s mind went back through the years to the still hot noon at Tara when gray smoke curled above a blue-clad body and Melanie stood at the top of the stairs with Charles’ saber in her hand.

Scarlett remembered that she had thought at the time: “How silly!

Melly couldn’t even heft that sword!”

But now she knew that had the necessity arisen, Melanie would have charged down those stairs and killed the Yankee—or been killed herself.

Yes, Melanie had been there that day with a sword in her small hand, ready to do battle for her.

And now, as Scarlett looked sadly back, she realized that Melanie had always been there beside her with a sword in her hand, unobtrusive as her own shadow, loving her, fighting for her with blind passionate loyalty, fighting Yankees, fire, hunger, poverty, public opinion and even her beloved blood kin.

Scarlett felt her courage and self-confidence ooze from her as she realized that the sword which had flashed between her and the world was sheathed forever.

“Melly is the only woman friend I ever had,” she thought forlornly, “the only woman except Mother who really loved me.

She’s like Mother, too.

Everyone who knew her has clung to her skirts.”

Suddenly it was as if Ellen were lying behind that closed door, leaving the world for a second time.

Suddenly she was standing at Tara again with the world about her ears, desolate with the knowledge that she could not face life without the terrible strength of the weak, the gentle, the tender hearted.

********

She stood in the hall, irresolute, frightened, and the flaring light of the fire in the sitting room threw tall dim shadows on the walls about her.

The house was utterly still and the stillness soaked into her like a fine chill rain.

Ashley!

Where was Ashley?

She went toward the sitting room seeking him like a cold animal seeking the fire but he was not there.

She must find him.

She had discovered Melanie’s strength and her dependence on it only to lose it in the moment of discovery but there was still Ashley left.

There was Ashley who was strong and wise and comforting.

In Ashley and his love lay strength upon which to lay her weakness, courage to bolster her fear, ease for her sorrow.

He must be in his room, she thought, and tiptoeing down the hall, she knocked softly.

There was no answer, so she pushed the door open.

Ashley was standing in front of the dresser, looking at a pair of Melanie’s mended gloves.

First he picked up one and looked at it, as though he had never seen it before.

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

Then he laid it down gently, as though it were made of glass, and picked up the other one.

She said: “Ashley!” in a trembling voice and he turned slowly and looked at her.

The drowsy aloofness had gone from his gray eyes and they were wide and unmasked.

In them she saw fear that matched her own fear, helplessness weaker than her own, bewilderment more profound than she would ever know.

The feeling of dread which had possessed her in the hall deepened as she saw his face.

She went toward him.

“I’m frightened,” she said. “Oh, Ashley, hold me. I’m so frightened!”

He made no move to her but stared, gripping the glove tightly in both hands.

She put a hand on his arm and whispered: “What is it?”

His eyes searched her intently, hunting, hunting desperately for something he did not find.

Finally he spoke and his voice was not his own.

“I was wanting you,” he said. “I was going to run and find you—run like a child wanting comfort—and I find a child, more frightened, running to me.”

“Not you—you can’t be frightened,” she cried. “Nothing has ever frightened you. But I—

You’ve always been so strong—”

“If I’ve ever been strong, it was because she was behind me,” he said, his voice breaking, and he looked down at the glove and smoothed the fingers.

“And—and—all of the strength I ever had is going with her.”

There was such a note of wild despair in his low voice that she dropped her hand from his arm and stepped back.

And in the heavy silence that fell between them, she felt that she really understood him for the first time in her life.

“Why—” she said slowly, “why, Ashley, you love her, don’t you?”

He spoke as with an effort.

“She is the only dream I ever had that lived and breathed and did not die in the face of reality.”

“Dreams!” she thought, an old irritation stirring.

“Always dreams with him!

Never common sense!”

With a heart that was heavy and a little bitter, she said: “You’ve been such a fool, Ashley.

Why couldn’t you see that she was worth a million of me?”

“Scarlett, please!

If you only knew what I’ve gone through since the doctor—”

“What you’ve gone through!

Don’t you think that I—

Oh, Ashley, you should have known, years ago, that you loved her and not me!

Why didn’t you?

Everything would have been so different, so—

Oh, you should have realized and not kept me dangling with all your talk about honor and sacrifice!

If you’d told me, years ago, I’d have—

It would have killed me but I could have stood it somehow.

But you wait till now, till Melly’s dying, to find it out and now it’s too late to do anything.

Oh, Ashley, men are supposed to know such things—not women!

You should have seen so clearly that you loved her all the time and only wanted me like—like Rhett wants that Watling woman!”

He winced at her words but his eyes still met hers, imploring silence, comfort.

Every line of his face admitted the truth of her words.

The very droop of his shoulders showed that his own self-castigation was more cruel than any she could give.

He stood silent before her, clutching the glove as though it were an understanding hand and, in the stillness that followed her words, her indignation fell away and pity, tinged with contempt, took its place.

Her conscience smote her.

She was kicking a beaten and defenseless man—and she had promised Melanie that she would look after him.

“And just as soon as I promised her, I said mean, hurting things to him and there’s no need for me to say them or for anyone to say them.

He knows the truth and it’s killing him,” she thought desolately. “He’s not grown up.

He’s a child, like me, and he’s sick with fear at losing her.

Melly knew how it would be—Melly knew him far better than I do.

That’s why she said look after him and Beau, in the same breath.

How can Ashley ever stand this?

I can stand it.

I can stand anything.

I’ve had to stand so much.

But he can’t—he can’t stand anything without her.”

“Forgive me, darling,” she said gently, putting out her arms.

“I know what you must be suffering.

But remember, she doesn’t know anything—she never even suspected—God was that good to us.”

He came to her quickly and his arms went round her blindly.

She tiptoed to bring her warm cheek comfortingly against his and with one hand she smoothed the back of his hair.

“Don’t cry, sweet.

She’d want you to be brave.

She’ll want to see you in a moment and you must be brave.

She mustn’t see that you’ve been crying.

It would worry her.”

He held her in a grip that made breathing difficult and his choking voice was in her ear.

“What will I do? I can’t—I can’t live without her!”

“I can’t either,” she thought, shuddering away from the picture of the long years to come, without Melanie.

But she caught herself in a strong grasp.

Ashley was depending on her, Melanie was depending on her.

As once before, in the moonlight at Tara, drunk, exhausted, she had thought: “Burdens are for shoulders strong enough to carry them.”

Well, her shoulders were strong and Ashley’s were not.

She squared her shoulders for the load and with a calmness she was far from feeling, kissed his wet cheek without fever or longing or passion, only with cool gentleness.

“We shall manage—somehow,” she said.

A door opened with sudden violence into the hall and Dr. Meade called with sharp urgency: “Ashley!

Quick!”

“My God!

She’s gone!” thought Scarlett.

“And Ashley didn’t get to tell her good-by!

But maybe—”

“Hurry!” she cried aloud, giving him a push, for he stood staring like one stunned.

“Hurry!”

She pulled open the door and motioned him through.

Galvanized by her words, he ran into the hall, the glove still clasped closely in his hand.

She heard his rapid steps for a moment and then the closing of a door.

She said, “My God!” again and walking slowly to the bed, sat down upon it and dropped her head in her hands.

She was suddenly tired, more tired than she had ever been in all her life.

With the sound of the closing door, the strain under which she had been laboring, the strain which had given her strength, suddenly snapped.

She felt exhausted in body and drained of emotions.

Now she felt no sorrow or remorse, no fear or amazement.

She was tired and her mind ticked away dully, mechanically, as the clock on the mantel.

Out of the dullness, one thought arose.

Ashley did not love her and had never really loved her and the knowledge did not hurt.

It should hurt.

She should be desolate, broken hearted, ready to scream at fate.

She had relied upon his love for so long.

It had upheld her through so many dark places.

Yet, there the truth was.

He did not love her and she did not care.

She did not care because she did not love him.

She did not love him and so nothing he could do or say could hurt her.

She lay down on the bed and put her head on the pillow tiredly.

Useless to try to combat the idea, useless to say to herself: “But I do love him. I’ve loved him for years.

Love can’t change to apathy in a minute.”

But it could change and it had changed.

“He never really existed at all, except in my imagination,” she thought wearily. “I loved something I made up, something that’s just as dead as Melly is, I made a pretty suit of clothes and fell in love with it.

And when Ashley came riding along, so handsome, so different, I put that suit on him and made him wear it whether it fitted him or not.

And I wouldn’t see what he really was.

I kept on loving the pretty clothes—and not him at all.”

Now she could look back down the long years and see herself in green flowered dimity, standing in the sunshine at Tara, thrilled by the young horseman with his blond hair shining like a silver helmet.

She could see so clearly now that he was only a childish fancy, no more important really than her spoiled desire for the aquamarine earbobs she had coaxed out of Gerald.

For, once she owned the earbobs, they had lost their value, as everything except money lost its value once it was hers.

And so he, too, would have become cheap if, in those first far-away days, she had ever had the satisfaction of refusing to marry him.

If she had ever had him at her mercy, seen him grown passionate, importunate, jealous, sulky, pleading, like the other boys, the wild infatuation which had possessed her would have passed, blowing away as lightly as mist before sunshine and light wind when she met a new man.

“What a fool I’ve been,” she thought bitterly.

“And now I’ve got to pay for it.

What I’ve wished for so often has happened.

I’ve wished Melly was dead so I could have him.

And now she’s dead and I’ve got him and I don’t want him.

His damned honor will make him ask me if I want to divorce Rhett and marry him.

Marry him?

I wouldn’t have him on a silver platter!

But, just the same I’ve got him round my neck for the rest of my life.

As long as I live I’ll have to look after him and see that he doesn’t starve and that people don’t hurt his feelings.

He’ll be just another child, clinging to my skirts.

I’ve lost my lover and I’ve got another child.

And if I hadn’t promised Melly—I’d—I wouldn’t care if I never saw him again.”

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐗𝐈𝐈.

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

SHE HEARD WHISPERING VOICES OUTSIDE, and going to the door she saw the frightened negroes standing in the back hall, Dilcey with her arms sagging under the heavy weight of the sleeping Beau, Uncle Peter crying, and Cookie wiping her wide wet face on her apron.

All three looked at her, dumbly asking what they were to do now.

She looked up the hall toward the sitting room and saw India and Aunt Pitty standing speechless, holding each other’s hands and, for once, India had lost her stiff-necked look.

Like the negroes, they looked imploringly at her, expecting her to give instructions.

She walked into the sitting room and the two women closed about her.

“Oh, Scarlett, what—” began Aunt Pitty, her fat, child’s mouth shaking.

“Don’t speak to me or I’ll scream,” said Scarlett.

Overwrought nerves brought sharpness to her voice and her hands clenched at her sides.

The thought of speaking of Melanie now, of making the inevitable arrangements that follow a death made her throat tighten again.

“I don’t want a word out of either of you.”

At the authoritative note in her voice, they fell back, helpless hurt looks on their faces.

“I mustn’t cry in front of them,” she thought. “I mustn’t break now or they’ll begin crying too, and then the darkies will begin screaming and we’ll all go mad.

I must pull myself together.

There’s so much I’ll have to do.

See the undertaker and arrange the funeral and see that the house is clean and be here to talk to people who’ll cry on my neck.

Ashley can’t do those things, Pitty and India can’t do them.

I’ve got to do them.

Oh, what a weary load!

It’s always been a weary load and always some one else’s load!”

She looked at the dazed hurt faces of India and Pitty and contrition swept her.

Melanie would not like her to be so sharp with those who loved her.

“I’m sorry I was cross,” she said, speaking with difficulty.

“It’s just that I —I’m sorry I was cross, Auntie. I’m going out on the porch for a minute.

I’ve got to be alone.

Then I’ll come back and we’ll—”

She patted Aunt Pitty and went swiftly by her to the front door, knowing if she stayed in this room another minute her control would crack.

She had to be alone.

And she had to cry or her heart would break.

She stepped onto the dark porch and closed the door behind her and the moist night air was cool upon her face.

The rain had ceased and there was no sound except for the occasional drip of water from the eaves.

The world was wrapped in a thick mist, a faintly chill mist that bore on its breath the smell of the dying year.

All the houses across the street were dark except one, and the light from a lamp in the window, falling into the street, struggled feebly with the fog, golden particles floating in its rays.

It was as if the whole world were enveloped in an unmoving blanket of gray smoke.

And the whole world was still.

She leaned her head against one of the uprights of the porch and prepared to cry but no tears came.

This was a calamity too deep for tears.

Her body shook.

There still reverberated in her mind the crashes of the two impregnable citadels of her life, thundering to dust about her ears.

She stood for a while, trying to summon up her old charm: “I’ll think of all this tomorrow when I can stand it better.”

But the charm had lost its potency.

She had to think of two things, now—Melanie and how much she loved and needed her; Ashley and the obstinate blindness that had made her refuse to see him as he really was.

And she knew that thoughts of them would hurt just as much tomorrow and all the tomorrows of her life.

“I can’t go back in there and talk to them now,” she thought. “I can’t face Ashley tonight and comfort him.

Not tonight!

Tomorrow morning I’ll come early and do the things I must do, say the comforting things I must say.

But not tonight.

I can’t. I’m going home.”

Home was only five blocks away.

She would not wait for the sobbing Peter to harness the buggy, would not wait for Dr. Meade to drive her home.

She could not endure the tears of the one, the silent condemnation of the other.

She went swiftly down the dark front steps without her coat or bonnet and into the misty night.

She rounded the corner and started up the long hill toward Peachtree Street, walking in a still wet world, and even her footsteps were as noiseless as a dream.

As she went up the hill, her chest tight with tears that would not come, there crept over her an unreal feeling, a feeling that she had been in this same dim chill place before, under a like set of circumstances—not once but many times before.

“How silly,” she thought uneasily, quickening her steps.

Her nerves were playing her tricks.

But the feeling persisted, stealthily pervading her mind.

She peered about her uncertainly and the feeling grew, eerie but familiar, and her head went up sharply like an animal scenting danger.

“It’s just that I’m worn out,” she tried to soothe herself.

“And the night’s so queer, so misty. I never saw such thick mist before except—except!”

And then she knew and fear squeezed her heart.

She knew now.

In a hundred nightmares, she had fled through fog like this, through a haunted country without landmarks, thick with cold cloaking mist, peopled with clutching ghosts and shadows.

Was she dreaming again or was this her dream come true?

For an instant, reality went out of her and she was lost.

The old nightmare feeling was sweeping her, stronger than ever, and her heart began to race.

She was standing again amid death and stillness, even as she had once stood at Tara.

All that mattered in the world had gone out of it, life was in ruins and panic howled through her heart like a cold wind.

The horror that was in the mist and was the mist laid hands upon her.

And she began to run.

As she had run a hundred times in dreams, she ran now, flying blindly she knew not where, driven by a nameless dread, seeking in the gray mist for the safety that lay somewhere.

Up the dim street she fled, her head down, her heart hammering, the night air wet on her lips, the trees overhead menacing.

Somewhere, somewhere in this wild land of moist stillness, there was a refuge!

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

She sped gasping up the long hill, her wet skirts wrapping coldly about her ankles, her lungs bursting, the tight-laced stays pressing her ribs into her heart.

Then before her eyes there loomed a light, a row of lights, dim and flickering but none the less real.

In her nightmare, there had never been any lights, only gray fog.

Her mind seized on those lights.

Lights meant safety, people, reality.

Suddenly she stopped running, her hands clenching, struggling to pull herself out of her panic, staring intently at the row of gas lamps which had signaled to her brain that this was Peachtree Street, Atlanta, and not the gray world of sleep and ghosts.

She sank down panting on a carriage block, clutching at her nerves as though they were ropes slipping swiftly through her hands.

“I was running—running like a crazy person!” she thought, her body shaking with lessening fear, her thudding heart making her sick.

“But where was I running?”

Her breath came more easily now and she sat with her hand pressed to her side and looked up Peachtree Street.

There, at the top of the hill, was her own house.

It looked as though every window bore lights, lights defying the mist to dim their brilliance.

Home!

It was real!

She looked at the dim far-off bulk of the house thankfully, longingly, and something like calm fell on her spirit.

Home!

That was where she wanted to go.

That was where she was running.

Home to Rhett!

At this realization it was as though chains fell away from her and with them the fear which had haunted her dreams since the night she stumbled to Tara to find the world ended.

At the end of the road to Tara she had found security gone, all strength, all wisdom, all loving tenderness, all understanding gone—all those things which, embodied in Ellen, had been the bulwark of her girlhood.

And, though she had won material safety since that night, in her dreams she was still a frightened child, searching for the lost security of that lost world.

Now she knew the haven she had sought in dreams, the place of warm safety which had always been hidden from her in the mist.

It was not Ashley—oh, never Ashley!

There was no more warmth in him than in a marsh light, no more security than in quicksand.

It was Rhett—Rhett who had strong arms to hold her, a broad chest to pillow her tired head, jeering laughter to pull her affairs into proper perspective.

And complete understanding, because he, like her, saw truth as truth, unobstructed by impractical notions of honor, sacrifice or high belief in human nature.

He loved her!

Why hadn’t she realized that he loved her, for all his taunting remarks to the contrary?

Melanie had seen it and with her last breath had said, “Be kind to him.”

“Oh,” she thought, “Ashley’s not the only stupidly blind person.

I should have seen.”

For years she had had her back against the stone wall of Rhett’s love and had taken it as much for granted as she had taken Melanie’s love, flattering herself that she drew her strength from herself alone.

And even as she had realized earlier in the evening that Melanie had been beside her in her bitter campaigns against life, now she knew that silent in the background, Rhett had stood, loving her, understanding her, ready to help.

Rhett at the bazaar, reading her impatience in her eyes and leading her out in the reel, Rhett helping her out of the bondage of mourning, Rhett convoying her through the fire and explosions the night Atlanta fell, Rhett lending her the money that gave her her start, Rhett who comforted her when she woke in the nights crying with fright from her dreams—why, no man did such things without loving a woman to distraction!

The trees dripped dampness upon her but she did not feel it.

The mist swirled about her and she paid it no heed.

For when she thought of Rhett, with his swarthy face, flashing teeth and dark alert eyes, a trembling came over her.

“I love him,” she thought and, as always, she accepted the truth with little wonder, as a child accepting a gift.

“I don’t know how long I’ve loved him but it’s true. And if it hadn’t been for Ashley, I’d have realized it long ago.

I’ve never been able to see the world at all, because Ashley stood in the way.”

She loved him, scamp, blackguard, without scruple or honor—at least, honor as Ashley saw it.

“Damn Ashley’s honor!” she thought. “Ashley’s honor has always let me down.

Yes, from the very beginning when he kept on coming to see me, even though he knew his family expected him to marry Melanie.

Rhett has never let me down, even that dreadful night of Melanie’s reception when he ought to have wrung my neck.

Even when he left me on the road the night Atlanta fell, he knew I’d be safe.

He knew I’d get through somehow.

Even when he acted like he was going to make me pay to get that money from him at the Yankee camp.

He wouldn’t have taken me.

He was just testing me.

He’s loved me all along and I’ve been so mean to him.

Time and again, I’ve hurt him and he was too proud to show it.

And when Bonnie died—

Oh, how could I?”

She stood up straight and looked at the house on the hill.

She had thought, half an hour ago, that she had lost everything in the world, except money, everything that made life desirable, Ellen, Gerald, Bonnie, Mammy, Melanie and Ashley.

She had to lose them all to realize that she loved Rhett—loved him because he was strong and unscrupulous, passionate and earthy, like herself.

“I’ll tell him everything,” she thought. “He’ll understand. He’s always understood.

I’ll tell him what a fool I’ve been and how much I love him and I’ll make it all up to him.”

Suddenly she felt strong and happy.

She was not afraid of the darkness or the fog and she knew with a singing in her heart that she would never fear them again.

No matter what mists might curl around her in the future, she knew her refuge.

She started briskly up the street toward home and the blocks seemed very long.

Far, far too long.

She caught up her skirts to her knees and began to run lightly.

But this time she was not running from fear.

She was running because Rhett’s arms were at the end of the street.

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈.

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

THE FRONT DOOR WAS SLIGHTLY AJAR and she trotted, breathless, into the hall and paused for a moment under the rainbow prisms of the chandelier.

For all its brightness the house was very still, not with the serene stillness of sleep but with a watchful, tired silence that was faintly ominous.

She saw at a glance that Rhett was not in the parlor or the library and her heart sank.

Suppose he should be out—out with Belle or wherever it was he spent the many evenings when he did not appear at the supper table?

She had not bargained on this.

She had started up the steps in search of him when she saw that the door of the dining room was closed.

Her heart contracted a little with shame at the sight of that closed door, remembering the many nights of this last summer when Rhett had sat there alone, drinking until he was sodden and Pork came to urge him to bed.

That had been her fault but she’d change it all.

Everything was going to be different from now on—but, please God, don’t let him be too drunk tonight.

If he’s too drunk he won’t believe me and he’ll laugh at me and that will break my heart.

She quietly opened the dining-room door a crack and peered in.

He was seated before the table, slumped in his chair, and a full decanter stood before him with the stopper in place, the glass unused.

Thank God, he was sober!

She pulled open the door, holding herself back from running to him.

But when he looked up at her, something in his gaze stopped her dead on the threshold, stilled the words on her lips.

He looked at her steadily with dark eyes that were heavy with fatigue and there was no leaping light in them.

Though her hair was tumbling about her shoulders, her bosom heaving breathlessly and her skirts mud splattered to the knees, his face did not change with surprise or question or his lips twist with mockery.

He was sunken in his chair, his suit wrinkling untidily against his thickening waist, every line of him proclaiming the ruin of a fine body and the coarsening of a strong face.

Drink and dissipation had done their work on the coin-clean profile and now it was no longer the head of a young pagan prince on new-minted gold but a decadent, tired Caesar on copper debased by long usage.

He looked up at her as she stood there, hand on heart, looked quietly, almost in a kindly way, and that frightened her.

“Come and sit down,” he said.

“She is dead?”

She nodded and advanced hesitantly toward him, uncertainty taking form in her mind at this new expression on his face.

Without rising, he pushed back a chair with his foot and she sank into it.

She wished he had not spoken of Melanie so soon.

She did not want to talk of her now, to relive the agony of the last hour.

There was all the rest of her life in which to speak of Melanie.

But it seemed to her now, driven by a fierce desire to cry: “I love you,” that there was only this night, this hour, in which to tell Rhett what was in her mind.

But there was something in his face that stopped her and she was suddenly ashamed to speak of love when Melanie was hardly cold.

“Well, God rest her,” he said heavily.

“She was the only completely kind person I ever knew.”

“Oh, Rhett!” she cried miserably, for his words brought up too vividly all the kind things Melanie had ever done for her.

“Why didn’t you come in with me?

It was dreadful—and I needed you so!”

“I couldn’t have borne it,” he said simply and for a moment he was silent.

Then he spoke with an effort and said, softly: “A very great lady.”

His somber gaze went past her and in his eyes was the same look she had seen in the light of the flames the night Atlanta fell, when he told her he was going off with the retreating army—the surprise of a man who knows himself utterly, yet discovers in himself unexpected loyalties and emotions and feels a faint self-ridicule at the discovery.

His moody eyes went over her shoulder as though he saw Melanie silently passing through the room to the door.

In the look of farewell on his face there was no sorrow, no pain, only a speculative wonder at himself, only a poignant stirring of emotions dead since boyhood, as he said again: “A very great lady.”

Scarlett shivered and the glow went from her heart, the fine warmth, the splendor which had sent her home on winged feet.

She half-grasped what was in Rhett’s mind as he said farewell to the only person in the world he respected and she was desolate again with a terrible sense of loss that was no longer personal.

She could not wholly understand or analyze what he was feeling, but it seemed almost as if she too had been brushed by whispering skirts, touching her softly in a last caress.

She was seeing through Rhett’s eyes the passing, not of a woman but a legend—the gentle, self-effacing but steel-spined women on whom the South had builded its house in war and to whose proud and loving arms it had returned in defeat.

His eyes came back to her and his voice changed.

Now it was light and cool.

“So she’s dead.

That makes it nice for you, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, how can you say such things,” she cried, stung, the quick tears coming to her eyes.

“You know how I loved her!”

“No, I can’t say I did.

Most unexpected and it’s to your credit, considering your passion for white trash, that you could appreciate her at last.”

“How can you talk so?

Of course I appreciated her!

You didn’t.

You didn’t know her like I did!

It isn’t in you to understand her—how good she was—”

“Indeed?

Perhaps not.”

“She thought for everybody except herself—why, her last words were about you.”

There was a flash of genuine feeling in his eyes as he turned to her.

“What did she say?”

“Oh, not now, Rhett.”

“Tell me.”

His voice was cool but the hand he put on her wrist hurt.

She did not want to tell, this was not the way she had intended to lead up to the subject of her love but his hand was urgent.

“She said—she said—‘Be kind to Captain Butler.

He loves you so much.’”

He stared at her and dropped her wrist.

His eyelids went down, leaving his face a dark blank.

Suddenly he rose and going to the window, he drew the curtains and looked out intently as if there were something to see outside except blinding mist.

“Did she say anything else?” he questioned, not turning his head.

“She asked me to take care of little Beau and I said I would, like he was my own boy.”

“What else?”

“She said—Ashley—she asked me to look after Ashley, too.”

He was silent for a moment and then he laughed softly.

“It’s convenient to have the first wife’s permission, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

He turned and even in her confusion she was surprised that there was no mockery in his face.

Nor was there any more interest in it than in the face of a man watching the last act of a none-too-amusing comedy.

“I think my meaning’s plain enough.

Miss Melly is dead.

You certainly have all the evidence you want to divorce me and you haven’t enough reputation left for a divorce to hurt you.

And you haven’t any religion left, so the Church won’t matter.

Then—Ashley and dreams come true with the blessings of Miss Melly.”

“Divorce?” she cried.

“No!

No!”

Incoherent for a moment, she leaped to her feet and running to him caught his arm.

“Oh, you’re all wrong!

Terribly wrong.

I don’t want a divorce— I—”

She stopped for she could find no other words.

He put his hand under her chin, quietly turned her face up to the light and looked for an intent moment into her eyes.

She looked up at him, her heart in her eyes, her lips quivering as she tried to speak.

But she could marshal no words because she was trying to find in his face some answering emotions, some leaping light of hope, of joy.

Surely he must know, now!

But the smooth dark blankness which had baffled her so often was all that her frantic, searching eyes could find.

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

He dropped her chin and, turning, walked back to his chair and sprawled tiredly again, his chin on his breast, his eyes looking up at her from under black brows in an impersonal speculative way.

She followed him back to his chair, her hands twisting, and stood before him.

“You are wrong,” she began again, finding words.

“Rhett, tonight, when I knew, I ran every step of the way home to tell you.

Oh, darling, I—”

“You are tired,” he said, still watching her.

“You’d better go to bed.”

“But I must tell you!”

“Scarlett,” he said heavily, “I don’t want to hear—anything.”

“But you don’t know what I’m going to say!”

“My pet, it’s written plainly on your face.

Something, someone has made you realize that the unfortunate Mr. Wilkes is too large a mouthful of Dead Sea fruit for even you to chew.

And that same something has suddenly set my charms before you in a new and attractive light,” he sighed slightly.

“And it’s no use to talk about it.”

She drew a sharp surprised breath.

Of course, he had always read her easily.

Heretofore she had resented it but now, after the first shock at her own transparency, her heart rose with gladness and relief.

He knew, he understood and her task was miraculously made easy.

No use to talk about it!

Of course he was bitter at her long neglect, of course he was mistrustful of her sudden turnabout.

She would have to woo him with kindness, convince him with a rich outpouring of love, and what a pleasure it would be to do it!

“Darling, I’m going to tell you everything,” she said, putting her hands on the arm of his chair and leaning down to him.

“I’ve been so wrong, such a stupid fool—”

“Scarlett, don’t go on with this.

Don’t be humble before me.

I can’t bear it.

Leave us some dignity, some reticence to remember out of our marriage.

Spare us this last.”

She straightened up abruptly.

Spare us this last?

What did he mean by “this last”?

Last?

This was their first, their beginning.

“But I will tell you,” she began rapidly, as if fearing his hand upon her mouth, silencing her.

“Oh, Rhett, I love you so, darling!

I must have loved you for years and I was such a fool I didn’t know it.

Rhett, you must believe me!”

He looked at her, standing before him, for a moment, a long look that went to the back of her mind.

She saw there was belief in his eyes but little interest.

Oh, was he going to be mean, at this of all times?

To torment her, pay her back in her own coin?

“Oh, I believe you,” he said at last.

“But what of Ashley Wilkes?”

“Ashley!” she said, and made an impatient gesture.

“I—I don’t believe I’ve cared anything about him for ages.

It was—well, a sort of habit I hung onto from when I was a little girl.

Rhett, I’d never even thought I cared about him if I’d ever known what he was really like.

He’s such a helpless, poor-spirited creature, for all his prattle about truth and honor and—”

“No,” said Rhett.

“If you must see him as he really is, see him straight.

He’s only a gentleman caught in a world he doesn’t belong in, trying to make a poor best of it by the rules of the world that’s gone.”

“Oh, Rhett, don’t let’s talk of him!

What does he matter now?

Aren’t you glad to know— I mean, now that I—”

As his tired eyes met hers, she broke off in embarrassment, shy as a girl with her first beau.

If he’d only make it easier for her!

If only he would hold out his arms, so she could crawl thankfully into his lap and lay her head on his chest.

Her lips on his could tell him better than all her stumbling words.

But as she looked at him, she realized that he was not holding her off just to be mean.

He looked drained and as though nothing she had said was of any moment.

“Glad?” he said.

“Once I would have thanked God, fasting, to hear you say all of this.

But, now, it doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?

What are you talking about?

Of course, it matters!

Rhett, you do care, don’t you?

You must care.

Melly said you did.”

“Well, she was right, as far as she knew.

But, Scarlett, did it ever occur to you that even the most deathless love could wear out?”

She looked at him speechless, her mouth a round O.

“Mine wore out,” he went on, “against Ashley Wilkes and your insane obstinacy that makes you hold on like a bulldog to anything you think you want….

Mine wore out.”

“But love can’t wear out!”

“Yours for Ashley did.”

“But I never really loved Ashley!”

“Then, you certainly gave a good imitation of it—up till tonight.

Scarlett, I’m not upbraiding you, accusing you, reproaching you.

That time has passed.

So spare me your defenses and your explanations.

If you can manage to listen to me for a few minutes without interrupting, I can explain what I mean.

Though, God knows, I see no need for explanations.

The truth’s so plain.”

She sat down, the harsh gas light falling on her white bewildered face.

She looked into the eyes she knew so well—and knew so little—listened to his quiet voice saying words which at first meant nothing.

This was the first time he had ever talked to her in this manner, as one human being to another, talked as other people talked, without flippancy, mockery or riddles.

“Did it ever occur to you that I loved you as much as a man can love a woman?

Loved you for years before I finally got you?

During the war I’d go away and try to forget you, but I couldn’t and I always had to come back.

After the war I risked arrest, just to come back and find you.

I cared so much I believe I would have killed Frank Kennedy if he hadn’t died when he did.

I loved you but I couldn’t let you know it.

You’re so brutal to those who love you, Scarlett.

You take their love and hold it over their heads like a whip.”

Out of it all only the fact that he loved her meant anything.

At the faint echo of passion in his voice, pleasure and excitement crept back into her.

She sat, hardly breathing, listening, waiting.

“I knew you didn’t love me when I married you.

I knew about Ashley, you see.

But, fool that I was, I thought I could make you care.

Laugh, if you like, but I wanted to take care of you, to pet you, to give you everything you wanted.

I wanted to marry you and protect you and give you a free rein in anything that would make you happy—just as I did Bonnie.

You’d had such a struggle, Scarlett.

No one knew better than I what you’d gone through and I wanted you to stop fighting and let me fight for you.

I wanted you to play, like a child—for you were a child, a brave, frightened, bullheaded child.

I think you are still a child.

No one but a child could be so headstrong and so insensitive.”

His voice was calm and tired but there was something in the quality of it that raised a ghost of memory in Scarlett.

She had heard a voice like this once before and at some other crisis of her life.

Where had it been?

The voice of a man facing himself and his world without feeling, without flinching, without hope.

Why—why—it had been Ashley in the wintry, windswept orchard at Tara, talking of life and shadow shows with a tired calmness that had more finality in its timbre than any desperate bitterness could have revealed.

Even as Ashley’s voice then had turned her cold with dread of things she could not understand, so now Rhett’s words made her heart sink.

His voice, his manner, more than the content of his words, disturbed her, made her realize that her pleasurable excitement of a few moments ago had been untimely.

Something was wrong, badly wrong.

What it was she did not know but she listened desperately, her eyes on his brown face, hoping to hear words that would dissipate her fears.

“It was so obvious that we were meant for each other.

So obvious that I was the only man of your acquaintance who could love you after knowing you as you really are—hard and greedy and unscrupulous, like me.

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

I loved you and I took the chance.

I thought Ashley would fade out of your mind.

But,” he shrugged, “I tried everything I knew and nothing worked.

And I loved you so, Scarlett.

If you had only let me, I could have loved you as gently and as tenderly as ever a man loved a woman.

But I couldn’t let you know, for I knew you’d think me weak and try to use my love against me.

And always—always there was Ashley.

It drove me crazy.

I couldn’t sit across the table from you every night, knowing you wished Ashley was sitting there in my place.

And I couldn’t hold you in my arms at night and know that—well, it doesn’t matter now.

I wonder, now, why it hurt.

That’s what drove me to Belle.

There is a certain swinish comfort in being with a woman who loves you utterly and respects you for being a fine gentleman—even if she is an illiterate whore.

It soothed my vanity.

You’ve never been very soothing, my dear.”

“Oh, Rhett…” she began, miserable at the very mention of Belle’s name, but he waved her to silence and went on.

“And then, that night when I carried you upstairs—I thought—I hoped—I hoped so much I was afraid to face you the next morning, for fear I’d been mistaken and you didn’t love me.

I was so afraid you’d laugh at me I went off and got drunk.

And when I came back, I was shaking in my boots and if you had come even halfway to meet me, had given me some sign, I think I’d have kissed your feet.

But you didn’t.”

“Oh, but Rhett, I did want you then but you were so nasty!

I did want you!

I think—yes, that must have been when I first knew I cared about you.

Ashley—I never was happy about Ashley after that, but you were so nasty that I—”

“Oh, well,” he said.

“It seems we’ve been at cross purposes, doesn’t it?

But it doesn’t matter now.

I’m only telling you, so you won’t ever wonder about it all.

When you were sick and it was my fault, I stood outside your door, hoping you’d call for me, but you didn’t, and then I knew what a fool I’d been and that it was all over.”

He stopped and looked through her and beyond her, even as Ashley had often done, seeing something she could not see.

And she could only stare speechless at his brooding face.

“But then, there was Bonnie and I saw that everything wasn’t over, after all.

I liked to think that Bonnie was you, a little girl again, before the war and poverty had done things to you.

She was so like you, so willful, so brave and gay and full of high spirits, and I could pet her and spoil her—just as I wanted to pet you.

But she wasn’t like you—she loved me.

It was a blessing that I could take the love you didn’t want and give it to her….

When she went, she took everything.”

Suddenly she was sorry for him, sorry with a completeness that wiped out her own grief and her fear of what his words might mean.

It was the first time in her life she had ever been sorry for anyone without feeling contemptuous as well, because it was the first time she had ever approached understanding any other human being.

And she could understand his shrewd caginess, so like her own, his obstinate pride that kept him from admitting his love for fear of a rebuff.

“Ah, darling,” she said coming forward, hoping he would put out his arms and draw her to his knees.

“Darling, I’m so sorry but I’ll make it all up to you!

We can be so happy, now that we know the truth and—Rhett—look at me, Rhett!

There—there can be other babies—not like Bonnie but—”

“Thank you, no,” said Rhett, as if he were refusing a piece of bread.

“I’ll not risk my heart a third time.”

“Rhett, don’t say such things!

Oh, what can I say to make you understand?

I’ve told you how sorry I am—”

“My darling, you’re such a child.

You think that by saying, ‘I’m sorry,’ all the errors and hurts of years past can be remedied, obliterated from the mind, all the poison drawn from old wounds….

Take my handkerchief, Scarlett.

Never, at any crisis of your life, have I known you to have a handkerchief.”

She took the handkerchief, blew her nose and sat down.

It was obvious that he was not going to take her in his arms.

It was beginning to be obvious that all his talk about loving her meant nothing.

It was a tale of a time long past, and he was looking at it as though it had never happened to him.

And that was frightening.

He looked at her in an almost kindly way, speculation in his eyes.

“How old are you, my dear?

You never would tell me.”

“Twenty-eight,” she answered dully, muffled in the handkerchief.

“That’s not a vast age.

It’s a young age to have gained the whole world and lost your own soul, isn’t it?

Don’t look frightened.

I’m not referring to hell fire to come for your affair with Ashley.

I’m merely speaking metaphorically.

Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve wanted two things.

Ashley and to be rich enough to tell the world to go to hell.

Well, you are rich enough and you’ve spoken sharply to the world and you’ve got Ashley, if you want him.

But all that doesn’t seem to be enough now.”

She was frightened but not at the thought of hell fire.

She was thinking: “But Rhett is my soul and I’m losing him.

And if I lose him, nothing else matters!

No, not friends or money or—or anything.

If only I had him I wouldn’t even mind being poor again.

No, I wouldn’t mind being cold again or even hungry.

But he can’t mean— Oh, he can’t!”

She wiped her eyes and said desperately:

“Rhett, if you once loved me so much, there must be something left for me!”

“Out of it all I find only two things that remain and they are the two things you hate the most—pity and an odd feeling of kindness.”

Pity!

Kindness!

“Oh, my God,” she thought despairingly.

Anything but pity and kindness.

Whenever she felt these two emotions for anyone, they went hand in hand with contempt.

Was he contemptuous of her too?

Anything would be preferable to that.

Even the cynical coolness of the war days, the drunken madness that drove him the night he carried her up the stairs, his hard fingers bruising her body, or the barbed drawling words that she now realized had covered a bitter love.

Anything except this impersonal kindness that was written so plainly in his face.

“Then—then you mean I’ve ruined it all—that you don’t love me any more?”

“That’s right.”

“But,” she said stubbornly, like a child who still feels that to state a desire is to gain that desire, “but I love you!”

“That’s your misfortune.”

She looked up quickly to see if there was a jeer behind those words but there was none.

He was simply stating a fact.

But it was a fact she still would not believe—could not believe.

She looked at him with slanting eyes that burned with a desperate obstinacy and the sudden hard line of jaw that sprang out through her soft cheek was Gerald’s jaw.

“Don’t be a fool, Rhett!

I can make—”

He flung up a hand in mock horror and his black brows went up in the old sardonic crescents.

“Don’t look so determined, Scarlett!

You frighten me.

I see you are contemplating the transfer of your tempestuous affections from Ashley to me and I fear for my liberty and my peace of mind.

No, Scarlett, I will not be pursued as the luckless Ashley was pursued.

Besides, I am going away.”

Her jaw trembled before she clenched her teeth to steady it.

Go away?

No, anything but that!

How could life go on without him?

Everyone had gone from her, everyone who mattered except Rhett.

He couldn’t go.

But how could she stop him?

She was powerless against his cool mind, his disinterested words.

“I am going away.

I intended to tell you when you came home from Marietta.”

“You are deserting me?”

“Don’t be the neglected, dramatic wife, Scarlett.

The role isn’t becoming.

I take it, then, you do not want a divorce or even a separation?

Well, then, I’ll come back often enough to keep gossip down.”

----------------------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------------------------

“Damn gossip!” she said fiercely.

“It’s you I want.

Take me with you!”

“No,” he said, and there was finality in his voice.

For a moment she was on the verge of an outburst of childish wild tears.

She could have thrown herself on the floor, cursed and screamed and drummed her heels.

But some remnant of pride, of common sense stiffened her.

She thought, if I did, he’d only laugh, or just look at me.

I mustn’t bawl; I mustn’t beg.

I mustn’t do anything to risk his contempt.

He must respect me even—even if he doesn’t love me.

She lifted her chin and managed to ask quietly:

“Where will you go?”

There was a faint gleam of admiration in his eyes as he answered.

“Perhaps to England—or to Paris.

Perhaps to Charleston to try to make peace with my people.”

“But you hate them!

I’ve heard you laugh at them so often and—”

He shrugged.

“I still laugh—but I’ve reached the end of roaming, Scarlett.

I’m forty-five—the age when a man begins to value some of the things he’s thrown away so lightly in youth, the clannishness of families, honor and security, roots that go deep— Oh, no!

I’m not recanting, I’m not regretting anything I’ve ever done.

I’ve had a hell of a good time—such a hell of a good time that it’s begun to pall and now I want something different.

No, I never intend to change more than my spots.

But I want the outer semblance of the things I used to know, the utter boredom of respectability—other people’s respectability, my pet, not my own—the calm dignity life can have when it’s lived by gentle folks, the genial grace of days that are gone.

When I lived those days I didn’t realize the slow charm of them—”

Again Scarlett was back in the windy orchard of Tara and there was the same look in Rhett’s eyes that had been in Ashley’s eyes that day.

Ashley’s words were as clear in her ears as though he and not Rhett were speaking.

Fragments of words came back to her and she quoted, parrot-like: “A glamor to it—a perfection, a symmetry like Grecian art.”

Rhett said sharply: “Why did you say that?

That’s what I meant.”

“It was something that—that Ashley said once, about the old days.”

He shrugged and the light went out of his eyes.

“Always Ashley,” he said and was silent for a moment.

“Scarlett, when you are forty-five, perhaps you will know what I’m talking about and then perhaps you, too, will be tired of imitation gentry and shoddy manners and cheap emotions.

But I doubt it.

I think you’ll always be more attracted by glister than by gold.

Anyway, I can’t wait that long to see.

And I have no desire to wait.

It just doesn’t interest me.

I’m going to hunt in old towns and old countries where some of the old times must still linger.

I’m that sentimental.

Atlanta’s too raw for me, too new.”

“Stop,” she said suddenly.

She had hardly heard anything he had said.

Certainly her mind had not taken it in.

But she knew she could no longer endure with any fortitude the sound of his voice when there was no love in it.

He paused and looked at her quizzically.

“Well, you get my meaning, don’t you?” he questioned, rising to his feet.

She threw out her hands to him, palms up, in the age-old gesture of appeal and her heart, again, was in her face.

“No,” she cried.

“All I know is that you do not love me and you are going away!

Oh, my darling, if you go, what shall I do?”

For a moment he hesitated as if debating whether a kind lie were kinder in the long run than the truth.

Then he shrugged.

“Scarlett, I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments and glue them together and tell myself that the mended whole was as good as new.

What is broken is broken—and I’d rather remember it as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken places as long as I lived.

Perhaps, if I were younger—” he sighed.

“But I’m too old to believe in such sentimentalities as clean slates and starting all over.

I’m too old to shoulder the burden of constant lies that go with living in polite disillusionment.

I couldn’t live with you and lie to you and I certainly couldn’t lie to myself.

I can’t even lie to you now.

I wish I could care what you do or where you go, but I can’t.”

He drew a short breath and said lightly but softly:

“My dear, I don’t give a damn.”

********

She silently watched him go up the stairs, feeling that she would strangle at the pain in her throat.

With the sound of his feet dying away in the upper hall was dying the last thing in the world that mattered.

She knew now that there was no appeal of emotion or reason which would turn that cool brain from its verdict.

She knew now that he had meant every word he said, lightly though some of them had been spoken.

She knew because she sensed in him something strong, unyielding, implacable—all the qualities she had looked for in Ashley and never found.

She had never understood either of the men she had loved and so she had lost them both.

Now, she had a fumbling knowledge that, had she ever understood Ashley, she would never have loved him; had she ever understood Rhett, she would never have lost him.

She wondered forlornly if she had ever really understood anyone in the world.

There was a merciful dullness in her mind now, a dullness that she knew from long experience would soon give way to sharp pain, even as severed tissues, shocked by the surgeon’s knife, have a brief instant of insensibility before their agony begins.

“I won’t think of it now,” she thought grimly, summoning up her old charm.

“I’ll go crazy if I think about losing him now.

I’ll think of it tomorrow.”

“But,” cried her heart, casting aside the charm and beginning to ache, “I can’t let him go!

There must be some way!”

“I won’t think of it now,” she said again, aloud, trying to push her misery to the back of her mind, trying to find some bulwark against the rising tide of pain.

“I’ll—why, I’ll go home to Tara tomorrow,” and her spirits lifted faintly.

She had gone back to Tara once in fear and defeat and she had emerged from its sheltering walls strong and armed for victory.

What she had done once, some-how—please God, she could do again!

How, she did not know.

She did not want to think of that now.

All she wanted was a breathing space in which to hurt, a quiet place to lick her wounds, a haven in which to plan her campaign.

She thought of Tara and it was as if a gentle cool hand were stealing over her heart.

She could see the white house gleaming welcome to her through the reddening autumn leaves, feel the quiet hush of the country twilight coming down over her like a benediction, feel the dews falling on the acres of green bushes starred with fleecy white, see the raw color of the red earth and the dismal dark beauty of the pines on the rolling hills.

She felt vaguely comforted, strengthened by the picture, and some of her hurt and frantic regret was pushed from the top of her mind.

She stood for a moment remembering small things, the avenue of dark cedars leading to Tara, the banks of cape jessamine bushes, vivid green against the white walls, the fluttering white curtains.

And Mammy would be there.

Suddenly she wanted Mammy desperately, as she had wanted her when she was a little girl, wanted the broad bosom on which to lay her head, the gnarled black hand on her hair.

Mammy, the last link with the old days.

With the spirit of her people who would not know defeat, even when it stared them in the face, she raised her chin.

She could get Rhett back.

She knew she could.

There had never been a man she couldn’t get, once she set her mind upon him.

“I’ll think of it all tomorrow, at Tara.

I can stand it then.

Tomorrow, I’ll think of some way to get him back.

After all, tomorrow is another day.”

THE END.