minmarn/Gone_with_the_wind · Datasets at Hugging Face

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The front door was slightly ajar and she trotted, breathless, into
the hall and paused for a moment under the rainbow prisms of the
chandelier. For all its brightness the house was very still, not
with the serene stillness of sleep but with a watchful, tired
silence that was faintly ominous. She saw at a glance that Rhett
was not in the parlor or the library and her heart sank. Suppose
he should be out--out with Belle or wherever it was he spent the
many evenings when he did not appear at the supper table? She had
not bargained on this.

She had started up the steps in search of him when she saw that the
door of the dining room was closed. Her heart contracted a little
with shame at the sight of that closed door, remembering the many
nights of this last summer when Rhett had sat there alone, drinking
until he was sodden and Pork came to urge him to bed. That had
been her fault but she'd change it all. Everything was to be
different from now on--but, please God, don't let him be too drunk
tonight. If he's too drunk he won't believe me and he'll laugh at
me and that will break my heart.

She quietly opened the dining-room door a crack and peered in. He
was seated before the table, slumped in his chair, and a full
decanter stood before him with the stopper in place, the glass
unused. Thank God, he was sober! She pulled open the door,
holding herself back from running to him. But when he looked up at
her, something in his gaze stopped her dead on the threshold,
stilled the words on her lips.

He looked at her steadily with dark eyes that were heavy with
fatigue and there was no leaping light in them. Though her hair
was tumbling about her shoulders, her bosom heaving breathlessly
and her skirts mud splattered to the knees, his face did not change
with surprise or question or his lips twist with mockery. He was
sunken in his chair, his suit wrinkling untidily against his
thickening waist, every line of him proclaiming the ruin of a fine
body and the coarsening of a strong face. Drink and dissipation
had done their work on the coin-clean profile and now it was no
longer the head of a young pagan prince on new-minted gold but a
decadent, tired Caesar on copper debased by long usage. He looked
up at her as she stood there, hand on heart, looked quietly, almost
in a kindly way, that frightened her.

"Come and sit down," he said. "She is dead?"

She nodded and advanced hesitantly toward him, uncertainty taking
form in her mind at this new expression on his face. Without
rising, he pushed back a chair with his foot and she sank into it.
She wished he had not spoken of Melanie so soon. She did not want
to talk of her now, to re-live the agony of the last hour. There
was all the rest of her life in which to speak of Melanie. But it
seemed to her now, driven by a fierce desire to cry: "I love you,"
that there was only this night, this hour, in which to tell Rhett
what was in her mind. But there was something in his face that
stopped her and she was suddenly ashamed to speak of love when
Melanie was hardly cold.

"Well, God rest her," he said heavily. "She was the only completely
kind person I ever knew."

"Oh, Rhett!" she cried miserably, for his words brought up too
vividly all the kind things Melanie had ever done for her. "Why
didn't you come in with me? It was dreadful--and I needed you so!"

"I couldn't have borne it," he said simply and for a moment he was
silent. Then he spoke with an effort and said, softly: "A very
great lady."

His somber gaze went past her and in his eyes was the same look she
had seen in the light of the flames the night Atlanta fell, when he
told her he was going off with the retreating army--the surprise of
a man who knows himself utterly, yet discovers in himself
unexpected loyalties and emotions and feels a faint self-ridicule
at the discovery.

His moody eyes went over her shoulder as though he saw Melanie
silently passing through the room to the door. In the look of
farewell on his face there was no sorrow, no pain, only a
speculative wonder at himself, only a poignant stirring of emotions
dead since boyhood, as he said again: "A very great lady."

Scarlett shivered and the glow went from her heart, the fine
warmth, the splendor which had sent her home on winged feet. She
half-grasped what was in Rhett's mind as he said farewell to the
only person in the world he respected and she was desolate again
with a terrible sense of loss that was no longer personal. She
could not wholly understand or analyze what he was feeling, but it
seemed almost as if she too had been brushed by whispering skirts,
touching her softly in a last caress. She was seeing through
Rhett's eyes the passing, not of a woman but of a legend--the
gentle, self-effacing but steel-spined women on whom the South had
builded its house in war and to whose proud and loving arms it had
returned in defeat.

His eyes came back to her and his voice changed. Now it was light
and cool.

"So she's dead. That makes it nice for you, doesn't it?"

The front door was slightly ajar and she trotted, breathless, into

the hall and paused for a moment under the rainbow prisms of the

chandelier. For all its brightness the house was very still, not

with the serene stillness of sleep but with a watchful, tired

silence that was faintly ominous. She saw at a glance that Rhett

was not in the parlor or the library and her heart sank. Suppose

he should be out--out with Belle or wherever it was he spent the

many evenings when he did not appear at the supper table? She had

not bargained on this.

She had started up the steps in search of him when she saw that the

door of the dining room was closed. Her heart contracted a little

with shame at the sight of that closed door, remembering the many

nights of this last summer when Rhett had sat there alone, drinking

until he was sodden and Pork came to urge him to bed. That had

been her fault but she'd change it all. Everything was to be

different from now on--but, please God, don't let him be too drunk

tonight. If he's too drunk he won't believe me and he'll laugh at

me and that will break my heart.

She quietly opened the dining-room door a crack and peered in. He

was seated before the table, slumped in his chair, and a full

decanter stood before him with the stopper in place, the glass

unused. Thank God, he was sober! She pulled open the door,

holding herself back from running to him. But when he looked up at

her, something in his gaze stopped her dead on the threshold,

stilled the words on her lips.

He looked at her steadily with dark eyes that were heavy with

fatigue and there was no leaping light in them. Though her hair

was tumbling about her shoulders, her bosom heaving breathlessly

and her skirts mud splattered to the knees, his face did not change

with surprise or question or his lips twist with mockery. He was

sunken in his chair, his suit wrinkling untidily against his

thickening waist, every line of him proclaiming the ruin of a fine

body and the coarsening of a strong face. Drink and dissipation

had done their work on the coin-clean profile and now it was no

longer the head of a young pagan prince on new-minted gold but a

decadent, tired Caesar on copper debased by long usage. He looked

up at her as she stood there, hand on heart, looked quietly, almost

in a kindly way, that frightened her.

"Come and sit down," he said. "She is dead?"

She nodded and advanced hesitantly toward him, uncertainty taking

form in her mind at this new expression on his face. Without

rising, he pushed back a chair with his foot and she sank into it.

She wished he had not spoken of Melanie so soon. She did not want

to talk of her now, to re-live the agony of the last hour. There

was all the rest of her life in which to speak of Melanie. But it

seemed to her now, driven by a fierce desire to cry: "I love you,"

that there was only this night, this hour, in which to tell Rhett

what was in her mind. But there was something in his face that

stopped her and she was suddenly ashamed to speak of love when

Melanie was hardly cold.

"Well, God rest her," he said heavily. "She was the only completely

kind person I ever knew."

"Oh, Rhett!" she cried miserably, for his words brought up too

vividly all the kind things Melanie had ever done for her. "Why

didn't you come in with me? It was dreadful--and I needed you so!"

"I couldn't have borne it," he said simply and for a moment he was

silent. Then he spoke with an effort and said, softly: "A very

great lady."

His somber gaze went past her and in his eyes was the same look she

had seen in the light of the flames the night Atlanta fell, when he

told her he was going off with the retreating army--the surprise of

a man who knows himself utterly, yet discovers in himself

unexpected loyalties and emotions and feels a faint self-ridicule

at the discovery.

His moody eyes went over her shoulder as though he saw Melanie

silently passing through the room to the door. In the look of

farewell on his face there was no sorrow, no pain, only a

speculative wonder at himself, only a poignant stirring of emotions

dead since boyhood, as he said again: "A very great lady."

Scarlett shivered and the glow went from her heart, the fine

warmth, the splendor which had sent her home on winged feet. She

half-grasped what was in Rhett's mind as he said farewell to the

only person in the world he respected and she was desolate again

with a terrible sense of loss that was no longer personal. She

could not wholly understand or analyze what he was feeling, but it

seemed almost as if she too had been brushed by whispering skirts,

touching her softly in a last caress. She was seeing through

Rhett's eyes the passing, not of a woman but of a legend--the

gentle, self-effacing but steel-spined women on whom the South had

builded its house in war and to whose proud and loving arms it had

returned in defeat.

His eyes came back to her and his voice changed. Now it was light

and cool.

"So she's dead. That makes it nice for you, doesn't it?"