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.