It was going to be difficult, telling Melanie that she and Prissy

were to deliver her baby.

CHAPTER XXII

There would never again be an afternoon as long as this one. Or as

hot. Or as full of lazy insolent flies. They swarmed on Melanie

despite the fan Scarlett kept in constant motion. Her arms ached

from swinging the wide palmetto leaf. All her efforts seemed

futile, for while she brushed them from Melanie's moist face, they

crawled on her clammy feet and legs and made her jerk them weakly

and cry: "Please! On my feet!"

The room was in semigloom, for Scarlett had pulled down the shades

to shut out the heat and brightness. Pin points of sunlight came

In through minute holes in the shades and about the edges. The

room was an oven and Scarlett's sweat-drenched clothes never dried

but became wetter and stickier as the hours went by. Prissy was

crouched in a corner, sweating too, and smelled so abominably

Scarlett would have sent her from the room had she not feared the

girl would take to her heels if once out of sight. Melanie lay on

the bed on a sheet dark with perspiration and splotched with

dampness where Scarlett had spilled water. She twisted endlessly,

to one side, to the other, to left, to right and back again.

Sometimes she tried to sit up and fell back and began twisting

again. At first, she had tried to keep from crying out, biting her

lips until they were raw, and Scarlett, whose nerves were as raw as

the lips, said huskily: "Melly, for God's sake, don't try to be

brave. Yell if you want to. There's nobody to hear you but us."

As the afternoon wore on, Melanie moaned whether she wanted to be

brave or not, and sometimes she screamed. When she did, Scarlett

dropped her head into her hands and covered her ears and twisted

her body and wished that she herself were dead. Anything was

preferable to being a helpless witness to such pain. Anything was

better than being tied here waiting for a baby that took such a

long time coming. Waiting, when for all she knew the Yankees were

actually at Five Points.

She fervently wished she had paid more attention to the whispered

conversations of matrons on the subject of childbirth. If only she

had! If only she had been more interested in such matters she'd

know whether Melanie was taking a long time or not. She had a

vague memory of one of Aunt Pitty's stories of a friend who was in

labor for two days and died without ever having the baby. Suppose

Melanie should go on like this for two days! But Melanie was so

delicate. She couldn't stand two days of this pain. She'd die

soon if the baby didn't hurry. And how could she ever face Ashley,

if he were still alive, and tell him that Melanie had died--after

she had promised to take care of her?

At first, Melanie wanted to hold Scarlett's hand when the pain was

bad but she clamped down on it so hard she nearly broke the bones.

After an hour of this, Scarlett's hands were so swollen and bruised

she could hardly flex them. She knotted two long towels together

and tied them to the foot of the bed and put the knotted end in

Melanie's hands. Melanie hung onto it as though it were a life

line, straining, pulling it taut, slackening it, tearing it.

Throughout the afternoon, her voice went on like an animal dying in

a trap. Occasionally she dropped the towel and rubbed her hands

feebly and looked up at Scarlett with eyes enormous with pain.

"Talk to me. Please talk to me," she whispered and Scarlett would

gabble something until Melanie again gripped the knot and again

began writhing.

The dim room swam with heat and pain and droning flies, and time

went by on such dragging feet Scarlett could scarcely remember the

morning. She felt as if she had been in this steaming, dark,

sweating place all her life. She wanted very much to scream every

time Melanie did, and only by biting her lips so hard it infuriated

her could she restrain herself and drive off hysteria.

Once Wade came tiptoeing up the stairs and stood outside the door,

wailing.

"Wade hungwy!" Scarlett started to go to him, but Melanie

whispered: "Don't leave me. Please. I can stand it when you're

here."

So Scarlett sent Prissy down to warm up the breakfast hominy and

feed him. For herself, she felt that she could never eat again

after this afternoon.

The clock on the mantel had stopped and she had no way of telling

the time but as the heat in the room lessened and the bright pin

points of light grew duller, she pulled the shade aside. She saw

to her surprise that it was late afternoon and the sun, a ball of

crimson, was far down the sky. Somehow, she had imagined it would

remain broiling hot noon forever.

She wondered passionately what was going on downtown. Had all the

troops moved out yet? Had the Yankees come? Would the Confederates

march away without even a fight? Then she remembered with a sick

dropping in her stomach how few Confederates there were and how many

men Sherman had and how well fed they were. Sherman! The name of

Satan himself did not frighten her half so much. But there was no

time for thinking now, as Melanie called for water, for a cold towel

on her head, to be fanned, to have the flies brushed away from her

face.

When twilight came on and Prissy, scurrying like a black wraith,

lit a lamp, Melanie became weaker. She began calling for Ashley,

over and over, as if in a delirium until the hideous monotony gave

Scarlett a fierce desire to smother her voice with a pillow.

Perhaps the doctor would come after all. If he would only come

quickly! Hope raising its head, she turned to Prissy, and ordered

her to run quickly to the Meades' house and see if he were there or

Mrs. Meade.

"And if he's not there, ask Mrs. Meade or Cookie what to do. Beg

them to come!"

Prissy was off with a clatter and Scarlett watched her hurrying

down the street, going faster than she had ever dreamed the

worthless child could move. After a prolonged time she was back,

alone.

"De doctah ain' been home all day. Sont wud he mout go off wid de

sojers. Miss Scarlett, Mist' Phil's 'ceased."

"Dead?"

"Yas'm," said Prissy, expanding with importance. "Talbot, dey

coachman, tole me. He wuz shot--"

"Never mind that."

"Ah din' see Miss Meade. Cookie say Miss Meade she washin' him an'

fixin ter buhy him fo' de Yankees gits hyah. Cookie say effen de

pain get too bad, jes' you put a knife unner Miss Melly's bed an'

it cut de pain in two."

Scarlett wanted to slap her again for this helpful information but

Melanie opened wide, dilated eyes and whispered: "Dear--are the

Yankees coming?"

"No," said Scarlett stoutly. "Prissy's a liar."

"Yas'm, Ah sho is," Prissy agreed fervently.

"They're coming," whispered Melanie undeceived and buried her face

in the pillow. Her voice came out muffled.

"My poor baby. My poor baby." And, after a long interval: "Oh,

Scarlett, you mustn't stay here. You must go and take Wade."

What Melanie said was no more than Scarlett had been thinking but

hearing it put into words infuriated her, shamed her as if her

secret cowardice was written plainly in her face.

"Don't be a goose. I'm not afraid. You know I won't leave you."

"You might as well. I'm going to die." And she began moaning

again.

Scarlett came down the dark stairs slowly, like an old woman,

feeling her way, clinging to the banisters lest she fall. Her legs

were leaden, trembling with fatigue and strain, and she shivered

with cold from the clammy sweat that soaked her body. Feebly she

made her way onto the front porch and sank down on the top step.

She sprawled back against a pillar of the porch and with a shaking

hand unbuttoned her basque halfway down her bosom. The night was

drenched in warm soft darkness and she lay staring into it, dull as

an ox.