As she struggled with her bushy, obstinate locks, perspiration beading her forehead, she heard light running feet in the downstairs hall and knew that Melanie was home from the hospital. As she heard her fly up the stairs, two at a time, she paused, hairpin in mid-air, realizing that something must be wrong, for Melanie always moved as decorously as a dowager. She went to the door and threw it open, and Melanie ran in, her face flushed and frightened, looking like a guilty child.
There were tears on her cheeks, her bonnet was hanging on her neck by the ribbons and her hoops swaying violently. She was clutching something in her hand, and the reek of heavy cheap perfume came into the room with her.
“Oh, Scarlett!” she cried, shutting the door and sinking on the bed. “Is Auntie home yet? She isn’t? Oh, thank the Lord! Scarlett, I’m so mortified I could die! I nearly swooned and, Scarlett, Uncle Peter is threatening to tell Aunt Pitty!”
“Tell what?”
“That I was talking to that—to Miss—Mrs.—” Melanie fanned her hot face with her handkerchief. “That woman with red hair, named Belle Watling!”
“Why, Melly!” cried Scarlett, so shocked she could only stare.
Belle Watling was the red-haired woman she had seen on the street the first day she came to Atlanta and by now, she was easily the most notorious woman in town. Many prostitutes had flocked into Atlanta, following the soldiers, but Belle stood out above the rest, due to her flaming hair and the gaudy, overly fashionable dresses she wore. She was seldom seen on Peachtree Street or in any nice neighborhood, but when she did appear respectable women made haste to cross the street to remove themselves from her vicinity. And Melanie had been talking with her. No wonder Uncle Peter was outraged.
“I shall die if Aunt Pitty finds out! You know she’ll cry and tell everybody in town and I’ll be disgraced,” sobbed Melanie. “And it wasn’t my fault. I—I couldn’t run away from her. It would have been so rude. Scarlett, I—I felt sorry for her. Do you think I’m bad for feeling that way?”
But Scarlett was not concerned with the ethics of the matter. Like most innocent and well-bred young women, she had a devouring curiosity about prostitutes.
“What did she want? What does she talk like?”
“Oh, she used awful grammar but I could see she was trying so hard to be elegant, poor thing. I came out of the hospital and Uncle Peter and the carriage weren’t waiting, so I thought I’d walk home. And when I went by the Emersons’ yard, there she was hiding behind the hedge! Oh, thank Heaven, the Emersons are in Macon! And she said, ‘Please, Mrs. Wilkes, do speak a minute with me.’ I don’t know how she knew my name. I knew I ought to run as hard as I could but—well, Scarlett, she looked so sad and—well, sort of pleading. And she had on a black dress and black bonnet and no paint and really looked decent but for that red hair. And before I could answer she said, ‘I know I shouldn’t speak to you but I tried to talk to that old peahen, Mrs. Elsing, and she ran me away from the hospital.’ ”
“Did she really call her a peahen?” said Scarlett pleasedly and laughed.
“Oh, don’t laugh. It isn’t funny. It seems that Miss—this woman, wanted to do something for the hospital—can you imagine it? She offered to nurse every morning and, of course, Mrs. Elsing must have nearly died at the idea and ordered her out of the hospital. And then she said, ‘I want to do something, too. Ain’t I a Confedrut, good as you?’ And, Scarlett, I was right touched at her wanting to help. You know, she can’t be all bad if she wants to help the Cause. Do you think I’m bad to feel that way?”
“For Heaven’s sake, Melly, who cares if you’re bad? What else did she say?”
“She said she’d been watching the ladies go by to the hospital and thought I had—a—a kind face and so she stopped me. She had some money and she wanted me to take it and use it for the hospital -and not tell a soul where it came from. She said Mrs. Elsing wouldn’t let it be used if she knew what kind of money it was. What kind of money! That’s when I thought I’d swoon! And I was so upset and anxious to get away, I just said: ‘Oh, yes, indeed, how sweet of you’ or something idiotic, and she smiled and said: That’s right Christian of you’ and shoved this duty handkerchief into my hand. Ugh, can you smell the perfume?”
Melanie held out a man’s handkerchief, soiled and highly perfumed, in which some coins were knotted.
“She was saying thank you and something about bringing me some money every week and just then Uncle Peter drove up and saw me!” Melly collapsed into tears and laid her head on the pillow. “And when he saw who was with me, he—Scarlett, he hollered at me! Nobody has ever hollered at me before in my whole life. And he said. ‘You git in dis ayah cah’ige dis minute!’ Of course, I did, and all the way home he blessed me out and wouldn’t let me explain and said he was going to tell Aunt Pitty. Scarlett, do go down and beg him not to tell her. Perhaps he will listen to you. It will kill Auntie if she knows I ever even looked that woman in the face. Will you?”
“Yes, I will. But let’s see how much money is in here. It feels heavy.”
She untied the knot and a handful of gold coins rolled out on the bed.
“Scarlett, there’s fifty dollars here! And in gold!” cried Melanie, awed, as she counted the bright pieces. “Tell me, do you think it’s all right to use this kind—well, money made—er—this way for the boys? Don’t you think that maybe God will understand that she wanted to help and won’t care if it is tainted? When I think of how many things the hospital needs—”
But Scarlett was not listening. She was looking at the dirty handkerchief, and humiliation and fury were filling her. There was a monogram in the corner in which were the initials “R. K. B.” In her top drawer was a handkerchief just like this, one that Rhett Butler had lent her only yesterday to wrap about the stems of wild flowers they had picked. She had planned to return it to him when he came to supper tonight.