I don't care. I wouldn't of minded if all their husbands got hung.

But I did mind about Mr. Wilkes. You see I ain't forgot how nice

you was to me durin' the war, about the money for the hospital.

There ain't never been a lady in this town nice to me like you was

and I don't forget a kindness. And I thought about you bein' left

a widder with a little boy if Mr. Wilkes got hung and--he's a nice

little boy, your boy is, Miz Wilkes. I got a boy myself and so I--"

"Oh, you have? Does he live--er--"

"Oh, no'm! He ain't here in Atlanta. He ain't never been here.

He's off at school. I ain't seen him since he was little. I--

well, anyway, when Captain Butler wanted me to lie for those men I

wanted to know who the men was and when I heard Mr. Wilkes was one

I never hesitated. I said to my girls, I said, 'I'll whale the

livin' daylights out of you all if you don't make a special point

of sayin' you was with Mr. Wilkes all evenin'."

"Oh!" said Melanie, still more embarrassed by Belle's offhand

reference to her "girls." "Oh, that was--er--kind of you and--of

them, too."

"No more'n you deserve," said Belle warmly. "But I wouldn't of did

it for just anybody. If it had been that Miz Kennedy's husband by

hisself, I wouldn't of lifted a finger, no matter what Captain

Butler said."

"Why?"

"Well, Miz Wilkes, people in my business knows a heap of things.

It'd surprise and shock a heap of fine ladies if they had any

notion how much we knows about them. And she ain't no good, Miz

Wilkes. She kilt her husband and that nice Wellburn boy, same as

if she shot them. She caused it all, prancin' about Atlanta by

herself, enticin' niggers and trash. Why, not one of my girls--"

"You must not say unkind things about my sister-in-law." Melanie

stiffened coldly.

Belle put an eager placating hand on Melanie's arm and then hastily

withdrew it.

"Don't freeze me, please, Miz Wilkes. I couldn't stand it after

you been so kind and sweet to me. I forgot how you liked her and

I'm sorry for what I said. I'm sorry about poor Mr. Kennedy bein'

dead too. He was a nice man. I used to buy some of the stuff for

my house from him and he always treated me pleasant. But Miz

Kennedy--well, she just ain't in the same class with you, Miz

Wilkes. She's a mighty cold woman and I can't help it if I think

so. . . . When are they goin' to bury Mr. Kennedy?"

"Tomorrow morning. And you are wrong about Mrs. Kennedy. Why,

this very minute she's prostrated with grief."

"Maybe so," said Belle with evident disbelief. "Well, I got to be

goin'. I'm afraid somebody might recognize this carriage if I

stayed here longer and that wouldn't do you no good. And, Miz

Wilkes, if you ever see me on the street, you--you don't have to

speak to me. I'll understand."

"I shall be proud to speak to you. Proud to be under obligation to

you. I hope--I hope we meet again."

"No," said Belle. "That wouldn't be fittin'. Good night."

CHAPTER XLVII

Scarlett sat in her bedroom, picking at the supper tray Mammy had

brought her, listening to the wind hurling itself out of the night.

The house was frighteningly still, quieter even than when Frank had

lain in the parlor just a few hours before. Then there had been

tiptoeing feet and hushed voices, muffled knocks on the door,

neighbors rustling in to whisper sympathy and occasional sobs from

Frank's sister who had come up from Jonesboro for the funeral.

But now the house was cloaked in silence. Although her door was

open she could hear no sounds from below stairs. Wade and the baby

had been at Melanie's since Frank's body was brought home and she

missed the sound of the boy's feet and Ella's gurgling. There was

a truce in the kitchen and no sound of quarreling from Peter, Mammy

and Cookie floated up to her. Even Aunt Pitty, downstairs in the

library, was not rocking her creaking chair in deference to

Scarlett's sorrow.

No one intruded upon her, believing that she wished to be left

alone with her grief, but to be left alone was the last thing

Scarlett desired. Had it only been grief that companioned her, she

could have borne it as she had borne other griefs. But, added to

her stunned sense of loss at Frank's death, were fear and remorse

and the torment of a suddenly awakened conscience. For the first

time in her life she was regretting things she had done, regretting

them with a sweeping superstitious fear that made her cast sidelong

glances at the bed upon which she had lain with Frank.

She had killed Frank. She had killed him just as surely as if it

had been her finger that pulled the trigger. He had begged her not

to go about alone but she had not listened to him. And now he was

dead because of her obstinacy. God would punish her for that. But

there lay upon her conscience another matter that was heavier and

more frightening even than causing his death--a matter which had

never troubled her until she looked upon his coffined face. There

had been something helpless and pathetic in that still face which

had accused her. God would punish her for marrying him when he

really loved Suellen. She would have to cower at the seat of

judgment and answer for that lie she told him coming back from the

Yankee camp in his buggy.

Useless for her to argue now that the end justified the means, that

she was driven into trapping him, that the fate of too many people

hung on her for her to consider either his or Suellen's rights and

happiness. The truth stood out boldly and she cowered away from

it. She had married him coldly and used him coldly. And she had

made him unhappy during the last six months when she could have

made him very happy. God would punish her for not being nicer to

him--punish her for all her bullyings and proddings and storms of

temper and cutting remarks, for alienating his friends and shaming

him by operating the mills and building the saloon and leasing

convicts.

She had made him very unhappy and she knew it, but he had borne it

all like a gentleman. The only thing she had ever done that gave

him any real happiness was to present him with Ella. And she knew

if she could have kept from having Ella, Ella would never have been

born.

She shivered, frightened, wishing Frank were alive, so she could be

nice to him, so very nice to him to make up for it all. Oh, if

only God did not seem so furious and vengeful! Oh, if only the

minutes did not go by so slowly and the house were not so still!

If only she were not so alone!

If only Melanie were with her, Melanie could calm her fears. But

Melanie was at home, nursing Ashley. For a moment Scarlett thought

of summoning Pittypat to stand between her and her conscience but

she hesitated. Pitty would probably make matters worse, for she

honestly mourned Frank. He had been more her contemporary than

Scarlett's and she had been devoted to him. He had filled to

perfection Pitty's need for "a man in the house," for he brought

her little presents and harmless gossip, jokes and stories, read

the paper to her at night and explained topics of the day to her

while she mended his socks. She had fussed over him and planned

special dishes for him and coddled him during his innumerable

colds. Now she missed him acutely and repeated over and over as

she dabbed at her red swollen eyes: "If only he hadn't gone out

with the Klan!"