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 frightened 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.
