minmarn/Gone_with_the_wind · Datasets at Hugging Face

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had been the cause of the trouble, wouldn't he have tried to shoot
Ashley? Or at least demanded an explanation?

No, it couldn't be that. It was only that he was drunk and sick
from strain and his mind was running wild, like a man delirious,
babbling wild fantasies. Men couldn't stand strains as well as
women. Something had upset him, perhaps he had had a small quarrel
with Scarlett and magnified it. Perhaps some of the awful things
he said were true. But all of them could not be true. Oh, not
that last, certainly! No man could say such a thing to a woman he
loved as passionately as this man loved Scarlett. Melanie had never
seen evil, never seen cruelty, and now that she looked on them for
the first time she found them too inconceivable to believe. He was
drunk and sick. And sick children must be humored.

"There! There!" she said crooningly. "Hush, now. I understand."

He raised his head violently and looked up at her with bloodshot
eyes, fiercely throwing off her hands.

"No, by God, you don't understand! You can't understand! You're--
you're too good to understand. You don't believe me but it's all
true and I'm a dog. Do you know why I did it? I was mad, crazy
with jealousy. She never cared for me and I thought I could make
her care. But she never cared. She doesn't love me. She never
has. She loves--"

His passionate, drunken gaze met hers and he stopped, mouth open,
as though for the first time he realized to whom he was speaking.
Her face was white and strained but her eyes were steady and sweet
and full of pity and unbelief. There was a luminous serenity in
them and the innocence in the soft brown depths struck him like a
blow in the face, clearing some of the alcohol out of his brain,
halting his mad, careering words in mid-flight. He trailed off
into a mumble, his eyes dropping away from hers, his lids batting
rapidly as he fought back to sanity.

"I'm a cad," he muttered, dropping his head tiredly back into her
lap. "But not that big a cad. And if I did tell you, you wouldn't
believe me, would you? You're too good to believe me. I never
before knew anybody who was really good. You wouldn't believe me,
would you?"

"No, I wouldn't believe you," said Melanie soothingly, beginning to
stroke his hair again. "She's going to get well. There, Captain
Butler! Don't cry! She's going to get well."



CHAPTER LVII


It was a pale, thin woman that Rhett put on the Jonesboro train a
month later. Wade and Ella, who were to make the trip with her,
were silent and uneasy at their mother's still, white face. They
clung close to Prissy, for even to their childish minds there was
something frightening in the cold, impersonal atmosphere between
their mother and their stepfather.

Weak as she was, Scarlett was going home to Tara. She felt that
she would stifle if she stayed in Atlanta another day, with her
tired mind forcing itself round and round the deeply worn circle of
futile thoughts about the mess she was in. She was sick in body
and weary in mind and she was standing like a lost child in a
nightmare country in which there was no familiar landmark to guide
her.

As she had once fled Atlanta before an invading army, so she was
fleeing it again, pressing her worries into the back of her mind
with her old defense against the world: "I won't think of it now.
I can't stand it if I do. I'll think of it tomorrow at Tara.
Tomorrow's another day." It seemed that if she could only get back
to the stillness and the green cotton fields of home, all her
troubles would fall away and she would somehow be able to mold her
shattered thoughts into something she could live by.

Rhett watched the train until it was out of sight and on his face
there was a look of speculative bitterness that was not pleasant.
He sighed, dismissed the carriage and mounting his horse, rode down
Ivy Street toward Melanie's house.

It was a warm morning and Melanie sat on the vine-shaded porch, her
mending basket piled high with socks. Confusion and dismay filled
her when she saw Rhett alight from his horse and toss the reins
over the arm of the cast-iron negro boy who stood at the sidewalk.
She had not seen him alone since that too dreadful day when
Scarlett had been so ill and he had been so--well--so drunk.
Melanie hated even to think the word. She had spoken to him only
casually during Scarlett's convalescence and, on those occasions,
she had found it difficult to meet his eyes. However, he had been
his usual bland self at those times, and never by look or word
showed that such a scene had taken place between them. Ashley had
told her once that men frequently did not remember things said and
done in drink and Melanie prayed heartily that Captain Butler's
memory had failed him on that occasion. She felt she would rather
die than learn that he remembered his outpourings. Timidity and
embarrassment swept over her and waves of color mounted her cheeks
as he came up the walk. But perhaps he had only come to ask if
Beau could spend the day with Bonnie. Surely he wouldn't have the
bad taste to come and thank her for what she had done that day!

had been the cause of the trouble, wouldn't he have tried to shoot

Ashley? Or at least demanded an explanation?

No, it couldn't be that. It was only that he was drunk and sick

from strain and his mind was running wild, like a man delirious,

babbling wild fantasies. Men couldn't stand strains as well as

women. Something had upset him, perhaps he had had a small quarrel

with Scarlett and magnified it. Perhaps some of the awful things

he said were true. But all of them could not be true. Oh, not

that last, certainly! No man could say such a thing to a woman he

loved as passionately as this man loved Scarlett. Melanie had never

seen evil, never seen cruelty, and now that she looked on them for

the first time she found them too inconceivable to believe. He was

drunk and sick. And sick children must be humored.

"There! There!" she said crooningly. "Hush, now. I understand."

He raised his head violently and looked up at her with bloodshot

eyes, fiercely throwing off her hands.

"No, by God, you don't understand! You can't understand! You're--

you're too good to understand. You don't believe me but it's all

true and I'm a dog. Do you know why I did it? I was mad, crazy

with jealousy. She never cared for me and I thought I could make

her care. But she never cared. She doesn't love me. She never

has. She loves--"

His passionate, drunken gaze met hers and he stopped, mouth open,

as though for the first time he realized to whom he was speaking.

Her face was white and strained but her eyes were steady and sweet

and full of pity and unbelief. There was a luminous serenity in

them and the innocence in the soft brown depths struck him like a

blow in the face, clearing some of the alcohol out of his brain,

halting his mad, careering words in mid-flight. He trailed off

into a mumble, his eyes dropping away from hers, his lids batting

rapidly as he fought back to sanity.

"I'm a cad," he muttered, dropping his head tiredly back into her

lap. "But not that big a cad. And if I did tell you, you wouldn't

believe me, would you? You're too good to believe me. I never

before knew anybody who was really good. You wouldn't believe me,

would you?"

"No, I wouldn't believe you," said Melanie soothingly, beginning to

stroke his hair again. "She's going to get well. There, Captain

Butler! Don't cry! She's going to get well."

CHAPTER LVII

It was a pale, thin woman that Rhett put on the Jonesboro train a

month later. Wade and Ella, who were to make the trip with her,

were silent and uneasy at their mother's still, white face. They

clung close to Prissy, for even to their childish minds there was

something frightening in the cold, impersonal atmosphere between

their mother and their stepfather.

Weak as she was, Scarlett was going home to Tara. She felt that

she would stifle if she stayed in Atlanta another day, with her

tired mind forcing itself round and round the deeply worn circle of

futile thoughts about the mess she was in. She was sick in body

and weary in mind and she was standing like a lost child in a

nightmare country in which there was no familiar landmark to guide

her.

As she had once fled Atlanta before an invading army, so she was

fleeing it again, pressing her worries into the back of her mind

with her old defense against the world: "I won't think of it now.

I can't stand it if I do. I'll think of it tomorrow at Tara.

Tomorrow's another day." It seemed that if she could only get back

to the stillness and the green cotton fields of home, all her

troubles would fall away and she would somehow be able to mold her

shattered thoughts into something she could live by.

Rhett watched the train until it was out of sight and on his face

there was a look of speculative bitterness that was not pleasant.

He sighed, dismissed the carriage and mounting his horse, rode down

Ivy Street toward Melanie's house.

It was a warm morning and Melanie sat on the vine-shaded porch, her

mending basket piled high with socks. Confusion and dismay filled

her when she saw Rhett alight from his horse and toss the reins

over the arm of the cast-iron negro boy who stood at the sidewalk.

She had not seen him alone since that too dreadful day when

Scarlett had been so ill and he had been so--well--so drunk.

Melanie hated even to think the word. She had spoken to him only

casually during Scarlett's convalescence and, on those occasions,

she had found it difficult to meet his eyes. However, he had been

his usual bland self at those times, and never by look or word

showed that such a scene had taken place between them. Ashley had

told her once that men frequently did not remember things said and

done in drink and Melanie prayed heartily that Captain Butler's

memory had failed him on that occasion. She felt she would rather

die than learn that he remembered his outpourings. Timidity and

embarrassment swept over her and waves of color mounted her cheeks

as he came up the walk. But perhaps he had only come to ask if

Beau could spend the day with Bonnie. Surely he wouldn't have the

bad taste to come and thank her for what she had done that day!