Gone with the Wind (160 page)

“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.”