She had never struck a slave in all her life, but now she slapped the black cheek with all the force in her tired arm.
Prissy screamed at the top of her voice, more from fright than pain, and began to dance up and down, writhing to break Scarlett’s grip.
As she screamed, the moaning from the second floor ceased and a moment later Melanie’s voice, weak and trembling, called:
“Scarlett?
Is it you?
Please come!
Please!”
Scarlett dropped Prissy’s arm and the wench sank whimpering to the steps.
For a moment Scarlett stood still, looking up, listening to the low moaning which had begun again.
As she stood there, it seemed as though a yoke descended heavily upon her neck, felt as though a heavy load were harnessed to it, a load she would feel as soon as she took a step.
She tried to think of all the things Mammy and Ellen had done for her when Wade was born but the merciful blurring of the childbirth pains obscured almost everything in mist.
She did recall a few things and she spoke to Prissy rapidly, authority in her voice.
“Build a fire in the stove and keep hot water boiling in the kettle.
And bring up all the towels you can find and that ball of twine.
And get me the scissors. Don’t come telling me you can’t find them.
Get them and get them quick.
Now hurry.”
She jerked Prissy to her feet and sent her kitchenwards with a shove.
Then she squared her shoulders and started up the stairs.
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.