Now, struggling against hatred for Ashley’s wife, there surged a feeling of admiration and comradeship.
She saw in a flash of clarity untouched by any petty emotion that beneath the gentle voice and the dovelike eyes of Melanie there was a thin flashing blade of unbreakable steel, felt too that there were banners and bugles of courage in Melanie’s quiet blood.
“Scarlett!
Scarlett!” shrilled the weak frightened voices of Suellen and Carreen, muffled by their closed door, and Wade’s voice screamed
“Auntee!
Auntee!”
Swiftly Melanie put her finger to her lips and, laying the sword on the top step, she painfully made her way down the upstairs hall and opened the door of the sick room.
“Don’t be scared, chickens!” came her voice with teasing gaiety.
“Your big sister was trying to clean the rust off Charles’ pistol and it went off and nearly scared her to death!”...
“Now, Wade Hampton, Mama just shot off your dear Papa’s pistol! When you are bigger, she will let you shoot it.”
“What a cool liar!” thought Scarlett with admiration.
“I couldn’t have thought that quickly.
But why lie?
They’ve got to know I’ve done it.”
She looked down at the body again and now revulsion came over her as her rage and fright melted away, and her knees began to quiver with the reaction.
Melanie dragged herself to the top step again and started down, holding onto the banisters, her pale lower lip caught between her teeth.
“Go back to bed, silly, you’ll kill yourself!” Scarlett cried, but the half-naked Melanie made her painful way down into the lower hall.
“Scarlett,” she whispered, “we must get him out of here and bury him.
He may not be alone and if they find him here—” She steadied herself on Scarlett’s arm.
“He must be alone,” said Scarlett.
“I didn’t see anyone else from the upstairs window.
He must be a deserter.”
“Even if he is alone, no one must know about it.
The negroes might talk and then they’d come and get you.
Scarlett, we must get him hidden before the folks come back from the swamp.”
Her mind prodded to action by the feverish urgency of Melanie’s voice, Scarlett thought hard.
“I could bury him in the corner of the garden under the arbor—the ground is soft there where Pork dug up the whisky barrel.
But how will I get him there?”
“We’ll both take a leg and drag him,” said Melanie firmly.
Reluctantly, Scarlett’s admiration went still higher.
“You couldn’t drag a cat.
I’ll drag him,” she said roughly.
“You go back to bed.
You’ll kill yourself.
Don’t dare try to help me either or I’ll carry you upstairs myself.”
Melanie’s white face broke into a sweet understanding smile.
“You are very dear, Scarlett,” she said and softly brushed her lips against Scarlett’s cheek.
Before Scarlett could recover from her surprise, Melanie went on: “If you can drag him out, I’ll mop up the—the mess before the folks get home, and Scarlett—”
“Yes?”
“Do you suppose it would be dishonest to go through his knapsack?
He might have something to eat.”
“I do not,” said Scarlett, annoyed that she had not thought of this herself.
“You take the knapsack and I’ll go through his pockets.”
Stooping over the dead man with distaste, she unbuttoned the remaining buttons of his jacket and systematically began rifling his pockets.
“Dear God,” she whispered, pulling out a bulging wallet, wrapped about with a rag.
“Melanie—Melly, I think it’s full of money!”
Melanie said nothing but abruptly sat down on the floor and leaned back against the wall.
“You look,” she said shakily.
“I’m feeling a little weak.”
Scarlett tore off the rag and with trembling hands opened the leather folds.