Gone With the Wind

by Margaret Mitchell

  "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?"

  "Oh, how can you say such things," she cried, stung, the quick tears coming to her eyes. "You know how I loved her!"

  "No, I can't say I did. Most unexpected and it's to your credit, considering your passion for white trash, that you could appreciate her at last."

  "How can you talk so? Of course I appreciated her! You didn't. You didn't know her like I did! It isn't in you to understand her -- how good she was --"

  "Indeed? Perhaps not."

  "She thought of everybody except herself -- why, her last words were about you."

  There was a flash of genuine feeling in his eyes as he turned to her.

  "What did she say?"

  "Oh, not now, Rhett."

  "Tell me."

  His voice was cool but the hand he put on her wrist hurt. She did not want to tell, this was not the way she had intended to lead up to the subject of her love but his hand was urgent.

  "She said -- she said -- 'Be kind to Captain Butler. He loves you so much.' "

  He stared at her and dropped her wrist. His eyelids went down, leaving his face dark and blank. Suddenly he rose and going to the window, he drew the curtains and looked out intently as if there were something to see outside except blinding mist.

  "Did she say anything else?" he questioned, not turning his head.

  "She asked me to take care of little Beau and I said I would, like he was my own boy."

  "What else?"

  "She said -- Ashley -- she asked me to look after Ashley, too."

  He was silent for a moment and then he laughed softly.

  "It's convenient to have the first wife's permission, isn't it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  He turned and even in her confusion she was surprised that there was no mockery in his face. Nor was there any more interest in it than in the face of a man watching the last act of a none-too-amusing comedy.

  "I think my meaning's plain enough. Miss Melly is dead. You certainly have all the evidence you want to divorce me and you haven't enough reputation left for a divorce to hurt you. And you haven't any religion left, so the Church won't matter. Then -- Ashley and dreams come true with the blessings of Miss Melly."

  "Divorce?" she cried. "No! No!" Incoherent for a moment she leaped to her feet and running to him caught his arm. "Oh, you're all wrong! Terribly wrong. I don't want a divorce -- I --" She stopped for she could find no other words.

  He put his hand under her chin, quietly turned her face up to the light and looked for an intent moment into her eyes. She looked up at him, her heart in her eyes, her lips quivering as she tried to speak. But she could marshal no words because she was trying to find in his face some answering emotions, some leaping light of hope, of joy. Surely he must know, now! But the smooth dark blankness which had baffled her so often was all that her frantic, searching eyes could find. He dropped her chin and, turning, walked back to his chair and sprawled tiredly again, his chin on his breast, his eyes looking up at her from under black brows in an impersonal speculative way.

  She followed him back to his chair, her hands twisting, and stood before him.

  "You are wrong," she began again, finding words. "Rhett tonight, when I knew, I ran every step of the way home to tell you. Oh, darling, I -- "

  "You are tired," he said, still watching her. "You'd better go to bed."

  "But I must tell you!"

  "Scarlett," he said heavily, "I don't want to hear -- anything."

  "But you don't know what I'm going to say!"

  "My pet, it's written plainly on your face. Something, someone has made you realize that the unfortunate Mr. Wilkes is too large a mouthful of Dead Sea fruit for even you to chew. And that same something has suddenly set my charms before you in a new and attractive light," he sighed slightly. "And it's no use to talk about it."

  She drew a sharp surprised breath. Of course, he had always read her easily. Heretofore she had resented it but now, after the first shock at her own transparency, her heart rose with gladness and relief. He knew, he understood and her task was miraculously made easy. No use to talk about it! Of course he was bitter at her long neglect, of course he was mistrustful of her sudden turnabout. She would have to woo him with kindness, convince him with a rich outpouring of love, and what a pleasure it would be to do it!

  "Darling, I'm going to tell you everything," she said, putting her hands on the arm of his chair and leaning down to him. "I've been so wrong, such a stupid fool --"

  "Scarlett, don't go on with this. Don't be humble before me. I can't bear it. Leave us some dignity, some reticence to remember out of our marriage. Spare us this last."

  She straightened up abruptly. Spare us this last? What did he mean by "this last"? Last? This was their first, their beginning.

  "But I will tell you," she began rapidly, as if fearing his hand upon her mouth, silencing her. "Oh, Rhett, I love you so, darling! I must have loved you for years and I was such a fool I didn't know it. Rhett, you must believe me!"

  He looked at her, standing before him, for a moment, a long look that went to the back of her mind. She saw there was belief in his eyes but little interest. Oh, was he going to be mean, at this of all times? To torment her, pay her back in her own coin?

  "Oh, I believe you," he said at last "But what of Ashley Wilkes?"

  "Ashley!" she said, and made an impatient gesture. "I -- I don't believe I've cared anything about him for ages. It was -- wen, a sort of habit I hung onto from
when I was a little girl. Rhett, I'd never even thought I cared about him if I'd ever known what he was really like. He's such a helpless, poor-spirited creature, for all his prattle about truth and honor and --"

  "No," said Rhett. "If you must see him as he really is, see him straight. He's only a gentleman caught in a world he doesn't belong in, trying to make a poor best of it by the rules of the world that's gone."

  "Oh, Rhett, don't let's talk of him! What does he matter now? Aren't you glad to know -- I mean, now that I --"

  As his tired eyes met hers, she broke off in embarrassment, shy as a girl with her first beau. If he'd only make it easier for her! If only he would hold out his arms, so she could crawl thankfully into his lap and lay her head on his chest. Her lips on his could tell him better than all her stumbling words. But as she looked at him, she realized that he was not holding her off just to be mean. He looked drained and as though nothing she had said was of any moment.

  "Glad?" he said. "Once I would have thanked God, fasting, to hear you say all this. But, now, it doesn't matter."

  "Doesn't matter? What are you talking about? Of course, it matters! Rhett, you do care, don't you? You must care. Melly said you did."

  "Well, she was right, as far as she knew. But, Scarlett, did it ever occur to you that even the most deathless love could wear out?"

  She looked at him speechless, her mouth a round O.

  "Mine wore out," he went on, "against Ashley Wilkes and your insane obstinacy that makes you hold on like a bulldog to anything you think you want ... Mine wore out."

  "But love can't wear out!"

  "Yours for Ashley did."

  "But I never really loved Ashley!"

  "Then, you certainly gave a good imitation of it -- up till tonight. Scarlett, I'm not upbraiding you, accusing you, reproaching you. That time has passed. So spare me your defenses and your explanations. If you can manage to listen to me for a few minutes without interrupting, I can explain what I mean. Though God knows, I see no need for explanations. The truth's so plain."

  She sat down, the harsh gas light falling on her white bewildered face. She looked into the eyes she knew so well -- and knew so little -- listened to his quiet voice saying words which at first meant nothing. This was the first time he had ever talked to her in this manner, as one human being to another, talked as other people talked, without flippancy, mockery or riddles.

  "Did it ever occur to you that I loved you as much as a man can love a woman? Loved you for years before I finally got you? During the war I'd go away and try to forget you, but I couldn't and I always had to come back. After the war I risked arrest, just 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 she had ever approached understanding any other human being. And she could understand his shrewd caginess, so like her own, his obstinate pride that kept him from admitting his love for fear of a rebuff.

  "Ah, darling," she said coming forward, hoping he would put out his arms and draw her to his knees. "Darling, I'm so sorry but I'll make it all up to you! We can be so happy, now that we know the truth and-- Rhett -- look at me, Rhett! There -
- there can be other babies -- not like Bonnie but --"

  "Thank you, no," said Rhett, as if he were refusing a piece of bread. "I'll not risk my heart a third time."

  "Rhett, don't say such things! Oh, what can I say to make you understand? I've told you how sorry I am--"

  "My darling, you're such a child. You think that by saying, 'I'm sorry,' all the errors and hurts of years past can be remedied, obliterated from the mind, all the poison drawn from old wounds. ... Take my handkerchief, Scarlett. Never, at any crisis of your life, have I known you to have a handkerchief."

  She took the handkerchief, blew her nose and sat down. It was obvious that he was not going to take her in his arms. It was beginning to be obvious that all his talk about loving her meant nothing. It was a tale of a time long past and he was looking at it as though it had never happened to him. And that was frightening. He looked at her in an almost kindly way, speculation in his eyes.

  "How old are you, my dear? You never would tell me."

  "Twenty-eight," she answered dully, muffled in the handkerchief.

  "That's not a vast age. It's a young age to have gained the whole world and lost your own soul, isn't it? Don't look frightened. I'm not referring to hell fire to come for your affair with Ashley. I'm merely speaking metaphorically. Ever since I've known you, you've wanted two things. Ashley and to be rich enough to tell the world to go to hell. Well, you are rich enough and you've spoken sharply to the world and you've got Ashley, if you want him. But all that doesn't seem to be enough now."

  She was frightened but not at the thought of hell fire. She was thinking: "But Rhett is my soul and I'm losing him. And if I lose him, nothing else matters! No, not friends or money or-- or anything. If only I had him I wouldn't even mind being poor again. No, I wouldn't mind being cold again or even hungry. But he can't mean -- Oh, he can't!"

  She wiped her eyes and said desperately:

  "Rhett, if you once loved me so much, there must be something left for me."

  "Out of it all I find only two things that remain and they are the two things you hate the most-- pity and an odd feeling of kindness."

  Pity! Kindness! "Oh, my God," she thought despairingly. Anything hut pity and kindness. Whenever she felt these two emotions for anyone, they went hand in hand with contempt Was he contemptuous of her too? Anything would be preferable to that. Even the cynical coolness of the war days, the drunken madness that drove him the night he carried her up the stairs, his hard fingers bruising her body, or the barbed drawling words that she now realized had covered a bitter love. Anything except this impersonal kindness that was written so plainly in his face.