“She didn’t tell anyone, Scarlett, especially not you. She was afraid you’d scold her if you knew. She wanted to wait three—till she thought it safe and sure and then surprise you all and laugh and say how wrong the doctors had been. And she was so happy. You know how she was about babies—how much she’s wanted a little girl. And everything went so well until—and then for no reason at all—”
The door of Melanie’s room opened quietly and Dr. Meade came out into the hall, shutting the door behind him. He stood for a moment, his gray beard sunk on his chest, and looked at the suddenly frozen four. His gaze fell last on Scarlett. As he came toward her, she saw that there was grief in his eyes and also dislike and contempt that flooded her frightened heart with guilt.
“So you finally got here,” he said.
Before she could answer, Ashley started toward the closed door.
“Not you, yet,” said the doctor. “She wants to speak to Scarlett.”
“Doctor,” said India, putting a hand on his sleeve. Though her voice was toneless, it plead more loudly than words. “Let me see her for a moment. I’ve been here since this morning, waiting, but she— Let me see her for a moment. I want to tell her—must tell her—that I was wrong about—something.”
She did not look at Ashley or Scarlett as she spoke, but Dr. Meade allowed his cold glance to fall on Scarlett.
“I’ll see, Miss India,” he said briefly. “But only if you’ll give me your word not to use up her strength telling her you were wrong. She knows you were wrong and it will only worry her to hear you apologize.”
Pitty began, timidly: “Please, Dr. Meade—”
“Miss Pitty, you know you’d scream and faint.”
Pitty drew up her stout little body and gave the doctor glance for glance. Her eyes were dry and there was dignity in every curve.
“Well, all right, honey, a little later,” said the doctor, more kindly. “Come, Scarlett.”
They tiptoed down the hall to the closed door and the doctor put his hand on Scarlett’s shoulder in a hard grip.
“Now, Miss,” he whispered briefly, “no hysterics and no deathbed confessions from you or, before God, I will wring your neck! Don’t give me any of your innocent stares. You know what I mean. Miss Melly is going to die easily and you aren’t going to ease your own conscience by telling her anything about Ashley. I’ve never harmed 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 semi-darkness, 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 fault 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.