Gone with the Wind (57 page)

“Yes,” said Scarlett, ungraciously.

“Scarlett, darling. You've been so good to me. No sister could have been sweeter or braver. And I love you for it. I'm so sorry I'm in the way.”

Scarlett stared. Loved her, did she? The fool!

“And Scarlett, I've been lying here thinking and I want to ask a very great favor of you.” Her clasp tightened. “If I should die, will you take my baby?”

Melanie's eyes were wide and bright with soft urgency.

“Will you?”

Scarlett jerked her hand away as fear swamped her. Fear roughened her voice as she spoke.

“Oh, don't be a goose, Melly. You aren't going to die. Every woman thinks she's going to die with her first baby. I know I did.”

“No, you didn't. You've never been afraid of anything. You are just saying that to try to cheer me up. I'm not afraid to die but I'm so afraid to leave the baby, if Ashley is—Scarlett, promise me that you'll take my baby if I should die. Then I won't be afraid. Aunt Pittypat is too old to raise a child and Honey and India are sweet but—I want you to have my baby. Promise me, Scarlett. And if it's a boy, bring him up like Ashley, and if it's a girl—dear, I'd like her to be like you.”

“God's nightgown!” cried Scarlett, leaping from the bed. “Aren't things bad enough without you talking about dying?”

“I'm sorry, dear. But promise me. I think it'll be today. I'm sure it'll be today. Please promise me.”

“Oh, all right, I promise,” said Scarlett, looking down at her in bewilderment.

Was Melanie such a fool she really didn't know how she cared for Ashley? Or did she know everything and feel that because of that love, Scarlett would take good care of Ashley's child? Scarlett had a wild impulse to cry out questions, but they died on her lips as Melanie took her hand and held it for an instant against her cheek. Tranquillity had come back into her eyes.

“Why do you think it will be today, Melly?”

“I've been having pains since dawn—but not very bad ones.”

“You have? Well, why didn't you call me? I'll send Prissy for Dr. Meade.”

“No, don't do that yet, Scarlett. You know how busy he is, how busy they all are. Just send word to him that we'll need him some time today. Send over to Mrs. Meade's and tell her and ask her to come over and sit with me. She'll know when to really send for him.”

“Oh, stop being so unselfish. You know you need a doctor as much as anybody in the hospital. I'll send for him right away.”

“No, please don't. Sometimes it takes all day having a baby and I just couldn't let the doctor sit here for hours when all those poor boys need him so much. Just send for Mrs. Meade. She'll know.”

“Oh, all right,” said Scarlett.

A
FTER SENDING UP
M
ELANIE
'
S BREAKFAST TRAY,
Scarlett dispatched Prissy for Mrs. Meade and sat down with Wade to eat her own breakfast. But for once she had no appetite. Between her nervous apprehension over the thought that Melanie's time was approaching and her unconscious straining to hear the sound of the cannon, she could hardly eat. Her heart acted very queerly, beating regularly for several minutes and then thumping so loudly and swiftly it almost made her sick at her stomach. The heavy hominy stuck in her throat like glue and never before had the mixture of parched corn and ground-up yams that passed for coffee been so repulsive. Without sugar or cream it was bitter as gall, for the sorghum used for “long sweetening” did little to improve the taste. After one swallow she pushed her cup away. If for no other reason she hated the Yankees because they kept her from having real coffee with sugar and thick cream in it.

Wade was quieter than usual and did not set up his every-morning complaint against the hominy that he so disliked. He ate silently the spoonfuls she pushed into his mouth and washed them down with noisily gulped water. His soft brown eyes followed her every movement, large, round as dollars, a childish bewilderment in them as though her own scarce-hidden fears had been communicated to him. When he had finished she sent him off to the back yard to play and watched him toddle across the straggling grass to his playhouse with great relief.

She arose and stood irresolutely at the foot of the stairs. She should go up and sit with Melanie and distract her mind from her coming ordeal but she did not feel equal to it. Of all days in the world, Melanie had to pick this day to have the baby! And of all days to talk about dying!

She sat down on the bottom step of the stairs and tried to compose herself, wondering again how yesterday's battle had gone, wondering how today's fighting was going. How strange to have a big battle going on just a few miles away and to know nothing of it! How strange the quiet of this deserted end of town in contrast with the day of the fighting at Peachtree Creek! Aunt Pitty's house was one of the last on the north side of Atlanta and with the fighting somewhere to the far south, there were no reinforcements going by at double-quick, no ambulances and staggering lines of walking wounded coming back. She wondered if such scenes were being enacted on the south side of town and thanked God she was not there. If only everyone except the Meades and the Merriwethers had not refugeed from this north end of Peachtree! It made her feel so forsaken and alone. She wished fervently that Uncle Peter were with her so he could go down to headquarters and learn the news. If it wasn't for Melanie she'd go to town this very minute and learn for herself, but she couldn't leave until Mrs. Meade arrived. Mrs. Meade. Why didn't she come on? And where was Prissy?

She rose and went out onto the front porch and looked for them impatiently, but the Meade house was around a shady bend in the street and she could see no one. After a long while Prissy came into view, alone, idling along as though she had the whole day before her,
switching her skirts from side to side and looking over her shoulder to observe the effect.

“You're as slow as molasses in January,” snapped Scarlett as Prissy opened the gate. “What did Mrs. Meade say? How soon will she be over here?”

“She warn't dar,” said Prissy.

“Where is she? When will she be home?”

“Well'm,” answered Prissy, dragging out her words pleasurably to give more weight to her message. “Dey Cookie say Mis Meade done got wud early dis mawnin' dat young Mist' Phil done been shot an' Miss Meade she tuck de cah'ige an' Ole Talbot an' Betsy an' dey done gone ter fotch him home. Cookie say he bad hurt an' Miss Meade ain' gwine ter be studyin' 'bout comin' up hyah.”

Scarlett stared at her and had an impulse to shake her. Negroes were always so proud of being the bearers of evil tidings.

“Well, don't stand there like a ninny. Go down to Mrs. Merriwether's and ask her to come up or send her mammy. Now, hurry.”

“Dey ain' dar, Miss Scarlett. Ah drapped in ter pass time of de day wid Mammy on mah way home. Dey's done gone. House all locked up. Spec dey's at de horsepittle.”

“So that's where you were so long! Whenever I send you somewhere you go where I tell you and don't stop to ‘pass any time' with anybody. Go—”

She stopped and racked her brain. Who was left in town among their friends who would be helpful? There was Mrs. Elsing. Of course, Mrs. Elsing didn't like her at all these days but she had always been fond of Melanie.

“Go to Mrs. Elsing's, and explain everything very carefully and tell her to please come up here. And, Prissy,
listen to me. Miss Melly's baby is due and she may need you any minute now. Now you hurry right straight back.”

“Yas'm,” said Prissy and, turning, sauntered down the walk at snail's gait.

“Hurry, you slow poke!”

“Yas'm.”

Prissy quickened her gait infinitesimally and Scarlett went back into the house. She hesitated again before going upstairs to Melanie. She would have to explain to her just why Mrs. Meade couldn't come and the knowledge that Phil Meade was badly wounded might upset her. Well, she'd tell a lie about it.

She entered Melanie's room and saw that the breakfast tray was untouched. Melanie lay on her side, her face white.

“Mrs. Meade's over at the hospital,” said Scarlett. “But Mrs. Elsing is coming. Do you feel bad?”

“Not very,” lied Melanie. “Scarlett, how long did it take Wade to get born?”

“Less than no time,” answered Scarlett with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling. “I was out in the yard and I didn't hardly have time to get into the house. Mammy said it was scandalous—just like one of the darkies.”

“I hope I'll be like one of the darkies too,” said Melanie, mustering a smile which suddenly disappeared as pain contorted her face.

Scarlett looked down at Melanie's tiny hips with none too sanguine hopes but said reassuringly: “Oh, it's not really so bad.”

“Oh, I know it isn't. I'm afraid I'm a little coward. Is—is Mrs. Elsing coming right away?”

“Yes, right away,” said Scarlett. “I'll go down and get
some fresh water and sponge you off. It's so hot today.”

She took as long a time as possible in getting the water, running to the front door every two minutes to see if Prissy were coming. There was no sign of Prissy so she went back upstairs, sponged Melanie's perspiring body and combed out her long dark hair.

When an hour had passed she heard scuffing negro feet coming down the street, and looking out of the window, saw Prissy returning slowly, switching herself as before and tossing her head with as many airy affectations as if she had a large and interested audience.

“Some day, I'm going to take a strap to that little wench,” thought Scarlett savagely, hurrying down the stairs to meet her.

“Miss Elsing ober at de horsepittle. Dey Cookie 'lows a whole lot of wounded sojers come in on de early train. Cookie fixin' soup ter tek ober dar. She say—”

“Never mind what she said,” interrupted Scarlett, her heart sinking. “Put on a clean apron because I want you to go over to the hospital. I'm going to give you a note to Dr. Meade, and if he isn't there, give it to Dr. Jones or any of the other doctors. And if you don't hurry back this time, I'll skin you alive.”

“Yas'm.”

“And ask any of the gentlemen for news of the fighting. If they don't know, go by the depot and ask the engineers who brought the wounded in. Ask if they are fighting at Jonesboro or near there.”

“Gawdlmighty, Miss Scarlett!” And sudden fright was in Prissy's black face. “De Yankees ain' at Tara, is dey?”

“I don't know. I'm telling you to ask for news.”

“Gawdlmighty, Miss Scarlett! Whut'll dey do ter Maw?”

Prissy began to bawl suddenly, loudly, the sound adding to Scarlett's own uneasiness.

“Stop bawling! Miss Melanie will hear you. Now go change your apron, quick.”

Spurred to speed, Prissy hurried toward the back of the house while Scarlett scratched a hasty note on the margin of Gerald's last letter to her—the only bit of paper in the house. As she folded it, so that her note was uppermost, she caught Gerald's words, “Your mother—typhoid—under no condition—to come home—” She almost sobbed. If it wasn't for Melanie, she'd start home, right this minute, if she had to walk every step of the way.

Prissy went off at a trot, the letter gripped in her hand, and Scarlett went back upstairs, trying to think of some plausible lie to explain Mrs. Elsing's failure to appear. But Melanie asked no questions. She lay upon her back, her face tranquil and sweet, and the sight of her quieted Scarlett for a while.

She sat down and tried to talk of inconsequential things, but the thoughts of Tara and a possible defeat by the Yankees prodded cruelly. She thought of Ellen dying and of the Yankees coming into Atlanta, burning everything, killing everybody. Through it all, the dull far-off thundering persisted, rolling into her ears in waves of fear. Finally, she could not talk at all and only stared out of the window at the hot still street and the dusty leaves hanging motionless on the trees. Melanie was silent too, but at intervals her quiet face was wrenched with pain.

She said, after each pain: “It wasn't very bad, really,” and Scarlett knew she was lying. She would have preferred a loud scream to silent endurance. She knew she should feel sorry for Melanie, but somehow she could not
muster a spark of sympathy. Her mind was too torn with her own anguish. Once she looked sharply at the pain-twisted face and wondered why it should be that she, of all people in the world, should be here with Melanie at this particular time—she who had nothing in common with her, who hated her, who would gladly have seen her dead. Well, maybe she'd have her wish, and before the day was over too. A cold superstitious fear swept her at this thought. It was bad luck to wish that someone were dead, almost as bad luck as to curse someone. Curses came home to roost, Mammy said. She hastily prayed that Melanie wouldn't die and broke into feverish small talk, hardly aware of what she said. At last, Melanie put a hot hand on her wrist.

“Don't bother about talking, dear. I know how worried you are. I'm so sorry I'm so much trouble.”

Scarlett relapsed into silence but she could not sit still. What would she do if neither the doctor nor Prissy got there in time? She walked to the window and looked down the street and came back and sat down again. Then she rose and looked out of the window on the other side of the room.

An hour went by and then another. Noon came and the sun was high and hot and not a breath of air stirred the dusty leaves. Melanie's pains were harder now. Her long hair was drenched in sweat and her gown stuck in wet spots to her body. Scarlett sponged her face in silence but fear was gnawing at her. God in Heaven, suppose the baby came before the doctor arrived! What would she do? She knew less than nothing of midwifery. This was exactly the emergency she had been dreading for weeks. She had been counting on Prissy to handle the situation if no doctor should be available. Prissy
knew all about midwifery. She'd said so time and again. But where was Prissy? Why didn't she come? Why didn't the doctor come? She went to the window and looked again. She listened hard and suddenly she wondered if it were only her imagination or if the sound of cannon in the distance had died away. If it were farther away it would mean that the fighting was nearer Jonesboro and that would mean—