minmarn/Gone_with_the_wind · Datasets at Hugging Face

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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, remembering 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 on Melanie's face there were signs of a
struggle to gather strength to speak.

"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.

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, remembering 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 on Melanie's face there were signs of a

struggle to gather strength to speak.

"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.