Gone with the Wind (115 page)

“Ashley is a very fine man,” began Scarlett hotly.

“I never said he wasn't but he's as helpless as a turtle on his back. If the Wilkes family pulls through these hard times, it'll be Melly who pulls them through. Not Ashley.”

“Melly! Lord, Grandma! What are you talking about? I've lived with Melly long enough to know she's sickly and scared and hasn't the gumption to say Boo to a goose.”

“Now why on earth should anyone want to say Boo to
a goose? It always sounded like a waste of time to me. She might not say Boo to a goose but she'd say Boo to the world or the Yankee government or anything else that threatened her precious Ashley or her boy or her notions of gentility. Her way isn't your way, Scarlett, or my way. It's the way your mother would have acted if she'd lived. Melly puts me in mind of your mother when she was young…. And maybe she'll pull the Wilkes family through.”

“Oh, Melly's a well-meaning little ninny. But you are very unjust to Ashley. He's—”

“Oh, foot! Ashley was bred to read books and nothing else. That doesn't help a man pull himself out of a tough fix, like we're all in now. From what I hear, he's the worst plow hand in the County! Now you just compare him with my Alex! Before the war, Alex was the most worthless dandy in the world and he never had a thought beyond a new cravat and getting drunk and shooting somebody and chasing girls who were no better than they should be. But look at him now! He learned farming because he had to learn. He'd have starved and so would all of us. Now he raises the best cotton in the County—yes, Miss! It's a heap better than Tara cotton!—and he knows what to do with hogs and chickens. Ha! He's a fine boy for all his bad temper. He knows how to bide his time and change with changing ways and when all this Reconstruction misery is over, you're going to see my Alex as rich a man as his father and his grandfather were. But Ashley—”

Scarlett was smarting at the slight to Ashley.

“It all sounds like tootle to me,” she said coldly.

“Well, it shouldn't,” said Grandma, fastening a sharp eye upon her. “For it's just exactly the course you've been
following since you went to Atlanta. Oh, yes! We hear of your didoes, even if we are buried down here in the country. You've changed with the changing times too. We hear how you suck up to the Yankees and the white trash and the new-rich Carpetbaggers to get money out of them. Butter doesn't melt in your mouth from all I can hear. Well, go to it, I say. And get every cent out of them you can, but when you've got enough money, kick them in the face, because they can't serve you any longer. Be sure you do that and do it properly, for trash hanging onto your coat tails can ruin you.”

Scarlett looked at her, her brow wrinkling with the effort to digest the words. They still didn't make much sense and she was still angry at Ashley being called a turtle on his back.

“I think you're wrong about Ashley,” she said abruptly.

“Scarlett, you just aren't smart.”

“That's your opinion,” said Scarlett rudely, wishing it were permissible to smack old ladies' jaws.

“Oh, you're smart enough about dollars and cents. That's a man's way of being smart. But you aren't smart at all like a woman. You aren't a speck smart about folks.”

Scarlett's eyes began to snap fire and her hands to clench and unclench.

“I've made you good and mad, haven't I?” asked the old lady, smiling. “Well, I aimed to do just that.”

“Oh, you did, did you? And why, pray?”

“I had good and plenty reasons.”

Grandma sank back in her chair and Scarlett suddenly realized that she looked very tired and incredibly old. The tiny clawlike hands folded over the fan were yellow and waxy as a dead person's. The anger went out
of Scarlett's heart as a thought came to her. She leaned over and took one of the hands in hers.

“You're a mighty sweet old liar,” she said. “You didn't mean a word of all this rigmarole. You've just been talking to keep my mind off Pa, haven't you?”

“Don't fiddle with me!” said Old Miss grumpily, jerking away her hand. “Partly for that reason, partly because what I've been telling you is the truth and you're just too stupid to realize it.”

But she smiled a little and took the sting from her words. Scarlett's heart emptied itself of wrath about Ashley. It was nice to know Grandma hadn't meant any of it.

“Thank you, just the same. It was nice of you to talk to me—and I'm glad to know you're with me about Will and Suellen, even if—even if a lot of other people do disapprove.”

Mrs. Tarleton came down the hall, carrying two glasses of buttermilk. She did all domestic things badly and the glasses were slopping over.

“I had to go clear to the spring house to get it,” she said. “Drink it quick because the folks are coming up from the burying ground. Scarlett, are you really going to let Suellen marry Will? Not that he isn't a sight too good for her but you know he is a Cracker and—”

Scarlett's eyes met those of Grandma. There was a wicked sparkle in the old eyes that found an answer in her own.

W
HEN THE LAST GOOD-BY
had been said and the last sound of wheels and hooves died away, Scarlett went into Ellen's office and removed a gleaming object from where she had hidden it the night before between the yellowed papers in the pigeonholes of the secretary. Hearing Pork sniffling in the dining room as he went about laying the table for dinner she called to him. He came to her, his black face as forlorn as a lost and masterless hound.

“Pork,” she said sternly, “you cry just once more and I'll—I'll cry, too. You've got to stop.”

“Yas'm. Ah try but ev'y time Ah try Ah thinks of Mist' Gerald an'—”

“Well, don't think. I can stand everybody else's tears but not yours. There,” she broke off gently, “don't you see? I can't stand yours because I know how you loved him. Blow your nose, Pork. I've got a present for you.”

A little interest flickered in Pork's eyes as he blew his nose loudly but it was more politeness than interest.

“You remember that night you got shot robbing somebody's hen house?”

“Lawd Gawd, Miss Scarlett! Ah ain' never—”

“Well, you did, so don't lie to me about it at this late date. You remember I said I was going to give you a watch for being so faithful?”

“Yas'm, Ah 'members. Ah figgered you'd done fergot.”

“No, I didn't forget and here it is.”

She held out for him a massive gold watch, heavily
embossed, from which dangled a chain with many fobs and seals.

“Fo' Gawd, Miss Scarlett!” cried Pork. “Dat's Mist' Gerald's watch! Ah done seen him look at dat watch a milyun times!”

“Yes, it's Pa's watch, Pork, and I'm giving it to you. Take it.”

“Oh, no'm!” Pork retreated in horror. “Dat's a w'ite gempmum's watch an' Mist' Gerald's ter boot. Huccome you talk 'bout givin' it ter me, Miss Scarlett? Dat watch belong by rights ter lil Wade Hampton.”

“It belongs to you. What did Wade Hampton ever do for Pa? Did he look after him when he was sick and feeble? Did he bathe him and dress him and shave him? Did he stick by him when the Yankees came? Did he steal for him? Don't be a fool, Pork. If ever anyone deserved a watch, you do, and I know Pa would approve. Here.”

She picked up the black hand and laid the watch in the palm. Pork gazed at it reverently and slowly delight spread over his face.

“Fer me, truly, Miss Scarlett?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Well'm—thankee, Ma'm.”

“Would you like for me to take it to Atlanta and have it engraved?”

“Whut's dis engrabed mean?” Pork's voice was suspicious.

“It means to put writing on the back of it, like—like ‘To Pork from the O'Haras—Well done good and faithful servant.'”

“No'm—thankee, Ma'm. Never mind de engrabin',” Pork retreated a step, clutching the watch firmly.

A little smile twitched her lips.

“What's the matter, Pork? Don't you trust me to bring it back?”

“Yas'm, Ah trus'es you—only, well'm, you mout change yo' mind.”

“I wouldn't do that.”

“Well'm, you mout sell it. Ah spec it's wuth a heap.”

“Do you think I'd sell Pa's watch?”

“Yas'm—ef you needed de money.”

“You ought to be beat for that, Pork. I've a mind to take the watch back.”

“No'm, you ain'!” The first faint smile of the day showed on Pork's grief-worn face. “Ah knows you— An' Miss Scarlett—”

“Yes, Pork?”

“Ef you wuz jes' half as nice ter w'ite folks as you is ter niggers, Ah spec de worl' would treat you better.”

“It treats me well enough,” she said. “Now, go find Mr. Ashley and tell him I want to see him here, right away.”

Ashley sat on Ellen's little writing chair, his long body dwarfing the frail bit of furniture while Scarlett offered him a half-interest in the mill. Not once did his eyes meet hers and he spoke no word of interruption. He sat looking down at his hands, turning them over slowly, inspecting first palms and then backs, as though he had never seen them before. Despite hard work, they were still slender and sensitive looking and remarkably well tended for a farmer's hands.

His bowed head and silence disturbed her a little and she redoubled her efforts to make the mill sound attractive. She brought to bear, too, all the charm of smile and glance she possessed but they were wasted, for he did not raise his eyes. If he would only look at her! She made no mention of the information Will had given her of Ashley's
determination to go North and spoke with the outward assumption that no obstacle stood in the way of his agreement with her plan. Still he did not speak and finally, her words trailed into silence. There was a determined squareness about his slender shoulders that alarmed her. Surely he wouldn't refuse! What earthly reason could he have for refusing?

“Ashley,” she began again and paused. She had not intended using her pregnancy as an argument, had shrunk from the thought of Ashley even seeing her so bloated and ugly, but as her other persuasions seemed to have made no impression, she decided to use it and her helplessness as a last card.

“You must come to Atlanta. I do need your help so badly now, because I can't look after the mills. It may be months before I can because—you see—well, because…”

“Please!” he said roughly. “Good God, Scarlett!”

He rose and went abruptly to the window and stood with his back to her, watching the solemn single file of ducks parade across the barnyard.

“Is that—is that why you won't look at me?” she questioned forlornly. “I know I look—”

He swung around in a flash and his gray eyes met hers with an intensity that made her hands go to her throat.

“Damn your looks!” he said with a swift violence. “You know you always look beautiful to me.”

Happiness flooded her until her eyes were liquid with tears.

“How sweet of you to say that! For I was so ashamed to let you see me—”

“You ashamed? Why should you be ashamed? I'm the one to feel shame and I do. If it hadn't been for my stupidity you wouldn't be in this fix. You'd never have married
Frank. I should never have let you leave Tara last winter. Oh, fool that I was! I should have known you—known you were desperate, so desperate that you'd— I should have—I should have—” His face went haggard.

Scarlett's heart beat wildly. He was regretting that he had not run away with her!

“The least I could have done was go out and commit highway robbery or murder to get the tax money for you when you had taken us in as beggars. Oh, I messed it up all the way around!”

Her heart contracted with disappointment and some of the happiness went from her, for these were not the words she hoped to hear.

“I would have gone anyway,” she said tiredly. “I couldn't have let you do anything like that. And anyway, it's done now.”

“Yes, it's done now,” he said with slow bitterness. “You wouldn't have let me do anything dishonorable but you would sell yourself to a man you didn't love—and bear his child, so that my family and I wouldn't starve. It was kind of you to shelter my helplessness.”

The edge in his voice spoke of a raw, unhealed wound that ached within him and his words brought shame to her eyes. He was swift to see it and his face changed to gentleness.

“You didn't think I was blaming you? Dear God, Scarlett! No. You are the bravest woman I've ever known. It's myself I'm blaming.”

He turned and looked out of the window again and the shoulders presented to her gaze did not look quite so square. Scarlett waited a long moment in silence, hoping that Ashley would return to the mood in which he spoke of her beauty, hoping he would say more words
that she could treasure. It had been so long since she had seen him and she had lived on memories until they were worn thin. She knew he still loved her. That fact was evident, in every line of him, in every bitter, self-condemnatory word, in his resentment at her bearing Frank's child. She so longed to hear him say it in words, longed to speak words herself that would provoke a confession, but she dared not. She remembered her promise given last winter in the orchard, that she would never again throw herself at his head. Sadly she knew that promise must be kept if Ashley were to remain near her. One cry from her of love and longing, one look that pleaded for his arms, and the matter would be settled forever. Ashley would surely go to New York. And he must not go away.

“Oh, Ashley, don't blame yourself! How could it be your fault? You will come to Atlanta and help me, won't you?”

“No.”

“But, Ashley,” her voice was beginning to break with anguish and disappointment, “but I'd counted on you. I do need you so. Frank can't help me. He's so busy with the store and if you don't come I don't know where I can get a man! Everybody in Atlanta who is smart is busy with his own affairs and the others are so incompetent and—”