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“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!