"Please," his look said. "I know what I'm doin'."
Already he was the man of the house and, not wishing to make a scene, Scarlett turned
helplessly to Mrs. Tarleton. That lady, suddenly diverted, as Will had intended, from thoughts of Suellen to the always fascinating matter of breeding, be it animal or human, took Scarlett's arm.
"Come in the house, honey."
Her face took on a look of kind, absorbed interest and Scarlett suffered herself to be led through the crowd that gave way and made a narrow path for her. There was a sympathetic
murmuring as she passed and several hands went out to pat her comfortingly. When she came abreast Grandma Fontaine, the old lady put out a skinny claw and said: "Give me your arm, child," and added with a fierce glance at Sally and Young Miss: "No, don't you come. I don't want you."
They passed slowly through the crowd which closed behind them and went up the shady
path toward the house, Mrs. Tarleton's eager helping hand so strong under Scarlett's elbow that she was almost lifted from the ground at each step.
"Now, why did Will do that?" cried Scarlett heatedly, when they were out of earshot. "He practically said: 'Look at her! She's going to have a baby!' "
"Well, sake's alive, you are, aren't you?" said Mrs. Tarleton. "Will did right It was foolish of you to stand in the hot sun when you might have fainted and had a miscarriage."
"Will wasn't bothered about her miscarrying," said Grandma, a little breathless as she labored across the front yard toward the steps. There was a grim, knowing smile on her face.
"Will's smart. He didn't want either you or me, Beetrice, at the graveside. He was scared of what we'd say and he knew this was the only way to get rid of us… And it was more than that. He didn't want Scarlett to hear the clods dropping on the coffin. And he's right. Just remember, Scarlett, as long as you don't hear that sound, folks aren't actually dead to you. But once you hear it … Well, it's the most dreadfully final sound in the world… Help me up the steps, child, and give me a hand, Beetrice. Scarlett don't any more need your arm than she needs crutches and I'm not so peart, as Will observed… Will knew you were your father's pet and he didn't want to make it worse for you than it already was. He figured it wouldn't be so bad for your sisters. Suellen has her shame to sustain her and Carreen her God. But you've got nothing to sustain you, have you, child?"
"No," answered Scarlett, helping the old lady up the Steps, faintly surprised at the truth that sounded in the reedy old voice. "I've never had anything to sustain me--except Mother."
"But when you lost her, you found you could stand alone, didn't you? Well, some folks can't. Your pa was one. Will's right. Don't you grieve. He couldn't get along without Ellen and he's happier where he is. Just like I'll be happier when I join the Old Doctor."
She spoke without any desire for sympathy and the two gave her none. She spoke as
briskly and naturally as if her husband were alive and in Jonesboro and a short buggy ride would bring them together. Grandma was too old and had seen too much to fear death.
"But--you can stand alone too," said Scarlett.
"Yes, but it's powerful uncomfortable at times."
"Look here, Grandma," interrupted Mrs. Tarleton, "you ought not to talk to Scarlett like that. She's upset enough already. What with her trip down here and that tight dress and her grief and the heat, she's got enough to make her miscarry without your adding to it, talking grief and sorrow."
"God's nightgown!" cried Scarlett in irritation. I'm not upset! And I'm not one of those sickly miscarrying fools!"
"You never can tell," said Mrs. Tarleton omnisciently. "I lost my first when I saw a bull gore one of our darkies and--you remember my red mare, Nellie? Now, there was the healthiest-looking mare you ever saw but she was nervous and high strung and if I didn't watch her, she'd--"
"Beatrice, hush," said Grandma. "Scarlett wouldn't miscarry on a bet. Let's us sit here in the hall where it's cool. There's a nice draft through here. Now, you go fetch us a glass of buttermilk, Beetrice, if there's any in the kitchen. Or look in the pantry and see if there's any wine. I could do with a glass. We'll sit here till the folks come up to say good-by."
"Scarlett ought to be in bed," insisted Mrs. Tarleton, running her eyes over her with the expert air of one who calculated a pregnancy to the last-minute of its length.
"Get going," said Grandma, giving her a prod with her cane, and Mrs. Tarleton went toward the kitchen, throwing her hat carelessly on the sideboard and running her hands through her damp red hair.