minmarn/Gone_with_the_wind · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 75
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 walls 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 arm's 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, became 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

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 walls 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 arm's 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, became 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