minmarn/Gone_with_the_wind · Datasets at Hugging Face

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to come back and find you. I cared so much I believe I would have
killed Frank Kennedy if he hadn't died when he did. I loved you
but I couldn't let you know it. You're so brutal to those who love
you, Scarlett. You take their love and hold it over their heads
like a whip."

Out of it all only the fact that he loved her meant anything. At
the faint echo of passion in his voice, pleasure and excitement
crept back into her. She sat, hardly breathing, listening,
waiting.

"I knew you didn't love me when I married you. I knew about
Ashley, you see. But, fool that I was, I thought I could make you
care. Laugh, if you like, but I wanted to take care of you, to pet
you, to give you everything you wanted. I wanted to marry you and
protect you and give you a free rein in anything that would make
you happy--just as I did Bonnie. You'd had such a struggle,
Scarlett. No one knew better than I what you'd gone through and I
wanted you to stop fighting and let me fight for you. I wanted you
to play, like a child--for you were a child, a brave, frightened,
bullheaded child. I think you are still a child. No one but a
child could be so headstrong and so insensitive."

His voice was calm and tired but there was something in the quality
of it that raised a ghost of memory in Scarlett. She had heard a
voice like this once before and at some other crisis of her life.
Where had it been? The voice of a man facing himself and his world
without feeling, without flinching, without hope.

Why--why--it had been Ashley in the wintry, windswept orchard at
Tara, talking of life and shadow shows with a tired calmness that
had more finality in its timbre than any desperate bitterness could
have revealed. Even as Ashley's voice then had turned her cold
with dread of things she could not understand, so now Rhett's voice
made her heart sink. His voice, his manner, more than the content
of his words, disturbed her, made her realize that her pleasurable
excitement of a few moments ago had been untimely. Something was
wrong, badly wrong. What it was she did not know but she listened
desperately, her eyes on his brown face, hoping to hear words that
would dissipate her fears.

"It was so obvious that we were meant for each other. So obvious
that I was the only man of your acquaintance who could love you
after knowing you as you really are--hard and greedy and
unscrupulous, like me. I loved you and I took the chance. I
thought Ashley would fade out of your mind. But," he shrugged, "I
tried everything I knew and nothing worked. And I loved you so,
Scarlett. If you had only let me, I could have loved you as gently
and as tenderly as ever a man loved a woman. But I couldn't let
you know, for I knew you'd think me weak and try to use my love
against me. And always--always there was Ashley. It drove me
crazy. I couldn't sit across the table from you every night,
knowing you wished Ashley was sitting there in my place. And I
couldn't hold you in my arms at night and know that--well, it
doesn't matter now. I wonder, now, why it hurt. That's what drove
me to Belle. There is a certain swinish comfort in being with a
woman who loves you utterly and respects you for being a fine
gentleman--even if she is an illiterate whore. It soothed my
vanity. You've never been very soothing, my dear."

"Oh, Rhett . . ." she began, miserable at the very mention of
Belle's name, but he waved her to silence and went on.

"And then, that night when I carried you upstairs--I thought--I
hoped--I hoped so much I was afraid to face you the next morning,
for fear I'd been mistaken and you didn't love me. I was so afraid
you'd laugh at me I went off and got drunk. And when I came back,
I was shaking in my boots and if you had come even halfway to meet
me, had given me some sign, I think I'd have kissed your feet. But
you didn't."

"Oh, but Rhett, I did want you then but you were so nasty! I did
want you! I think--yes, that must have been when I first knew I
cared about you. Ashley--I never was happy about Ashley after
that, but you were so nasty that I--"

"Oh, well," he said. "It seems we've been at cross purposes,
doesn't it? But it doesn't matter now. I'm only telling you, so
you won't ever wonder about it all. When you were sick and it was
all my fault, I stood outside your door, hoping you'd call for me,
but you didn't, and then I knew what a fool I'd been and that it
was all over."

He stopped and looked through her and beyond her, even as Ashley
had often done, seeing something she could not see. And she could
only stare speechless at his brooding face.

"But then, there was Bonnie and I saw that everything wasn't over,
after all. I liked to think that Bonnie was you, a little girl
again, before the war and poverty had done things to you. She was
so like you, so willful, so brave and gay and full of high spirits,
and I could pet her and spoil her--just as I wanted to pet you.
But she wasn't like you--she loved me. It was a blessing that I
could take the love you didn't want and give it to her. . . . When
she went, she took everything."

Suddenly she was sorry for him, sorry with a completeness that
wiped out her own grief and her fear of what his words might mean.
It was the first time in her life she had been sorry for anyone
without feeling contemptuous as well, because it was the first time

to come back and find you. I cared so much I believe I would have

killed Frank Kennedy if he hadn't died when he did. I loved you

but I couldn't let you know it. You're so brutal to those who love

you, Scarlett. You take their love and hold it over their heads

like a whip."

Out of it all only the fact that he loved her meant anything. At

the faint echo of passion in his voice, pleasure and excitement

crept back into her. She sat, hardly breathing, listening,

waiting.

"I knew you didn't love me when I married you. I knew about

Ashley, you see. But, fool that I was, I thought I could make you

care. Laugh, if you like, but I wanted to take care of you, to pet

you, to give you everything you wanted. I wanted to marry you and

protect you and give you a free rein in anything that would make

you happy--just as I did Bonnie. You'd had such a struggle,

Scarlett. No one knew better than I what you'd gone through and I

wanted you to stop fighting and let me fight for you. I wanted you

to play, like a child--for you were a child, a brave, frightened,

bullheaded child. I think you are still a child. No one but a

child could be so headstrong and so insensitive."

His voice was calm and tired but there was something in the quality

of it that raised a ghost of memory in Scarlett. She had heard a

voice like this once before and at some other crisis of her life.

Where had it been? The voice of a man facing himself and his world

without feeling, without flinching, without hope.

Why--why--it had been Ashley in the wintry, windswept orchard at

Tara, talking of life and shadow shows with a tired calmness that

had more finality in its timbre than any desperate bitterness could

have revealed. Even as Ashley's voice then had turned her cold

with dread of things she could not understand, so now Rhett's voice

made her heart sink. His voice, his manner, more than the content

of his words, disturbed her, made her realize that her pleasurable

excitement of a few moments ago had been untimely. Something was

wrong, badly wrong. What it was she did not know but she listened

desperately, her eyes on his brown face, hoping to hear words that

would dissipate her fears.

"It was so obvious that we were meant for each other. So obvious

that I was the only man of your acquaintance who could love you

after knowing you as you really are--hard and greedy and

unscrupulous, like me. I loved you and I took the chance. I

thought Ashley would fade out of your mind. But," he shrugged, "I

tried everything I knew and nothing worked. And I loved you so,

Scarlett. If you had only let me, I could have loved you as gently

and as tenderly as ever a man loved a woman. But I couldn't let

you know, for I knew you'd think me weak and try to use my love

against me. And always--always there was Ashley. It drove me

crazy. I couldn't sit across the table from you every night,

knowing you wished Ashley was sitting there in my place. And I

couldn't hold you in my arms at night and know that--well, it

doesn't matter now. I wonder, now, why it hurt. That's what drove

me to Belle. There is a certain swinish comfort in being with a

woman who loves you utterly and respects you for being a fine

gentleman--even if she is an illiterate whore. It soothed my

vanity. You've never been very soothing, my dear."

"Oh, Rhett . . ." she began, miserable at the very mention of

Belle's name, but he waved her to silence and went on.

"And then, that night when I carried you upstairs--I thought--I

hoped--I hoped so much I was afraid to face you the next morning,

for fear I'd been mistaken and you didn't love me. I was so afraid

you'd laugh at me I went off and got drunk. And when I came back,

I was shaking in my boots and if you had come even halfway to meet

me, had given me some sign, I think I'd have kissed your feet. But

you didn't."

"Oh, but Rhett, I did want you then but you were so nasty! I did

want you! I think--yes, that must have been when I first knew I

cared about you. Ashley--I never was happy about Ashley after

that, but you were so nasty that I--"

"Oh, well," he said. "It seems we've been at cross purposes,

doesn't it? But it doesn't matter now. I'm only telling you, so

you won't ever wonder about it all. When you were sick and it was

all my fault, I stood outside your door, hoping you'd call for me,

but you didn't, and then I knew what a fool I'd been and that it

was all over."

He stopped and looked through her and beyond her, even as Ashley

had often done, seeing something she could not see. And she could

only stare speechless at his brooding face.

"But then, there was Bonnie and I saw that everything wasn't over,

after all. I liked to think that Bonnie was you, a little girl

again, before the war and poverty had done things to you. She was

so like you, so willful, so brave and gay and full of high spirits,

and I could pet her and spoil her--just as I wanted to pet you.

But she wasn't like you--she loved me. It was a blessing that I

could take the love you didn't want and give it to her. . . . When

she went, she took everything."

Suddenly she was sorry for him, sorry with a completeness that

wiped out her own grief and her fear of what his words might mean.

It was the first time in her life she had been sorry for anyone

without feeling contemptuous as well, because it was the first time