Melanie told her never to set foot in this house again." The three rose at the sight of her, Aunt Pitty biting her trembling lips to still them, India staring at her, grief stricken and without hate.
Ashley looked dull as a sleepwalker and, as he came to her and put his hand upon her arm, he spoke like a sleepwalker.
"She asked for you," he said. "She asked for you."
"Can I see her now?" She turned toward the closed door of Melanie's room.
"No. Dr. Meade is in there now. I'm glad you've come, Scarlett"
"I came as quickly as I could." Scarlett shed her bonnet and her cloak. "The train--She isn't really--Tell me, she's better, isn't she, Ashley? Speak to me! Don't look like that! She isn't really--"
"She kept asking for you," said Ashley and looked her in the eyes. And, in his eyes she saw the answer to her question. For a moment, her heart stood still and then a queer fear, stronger than anxiety, stronger than grief, began to beat in her breast. It can't be true, she thought vehemently, trying to push back the fear. Doctors make mistakes. I won't think it's true. I can't let myself think it's true. I'll scream if I do. I must think of something else.
"I don't believe it!" she cried stormily, looking into the three drawn faces as though defying them to contradict her. "And why didn't Melanie tell me? I'd never have gone to Marietta if I'd known!"
Ashley's eyes awoke and were tormented.
"She didn't tell anyone, Scarlett, especially not you. She was afraid you'd scold her if you knew. She wanted to wait three--till she thought it safe and sure and then surprise you all and laugh and say how wrong the doctors had been. And she was so happy. You know how she was
about babies--how much she's wanted a little girl. And everything went so well until--and then for no reason at all--"
The door of Melanie's room opened quietly and Dr. Meade came out into the hall,
shutting the door behind him. He stood for a moment, his gray beard sunk on his chest, and looked at the suddenly frozen four. His gaze fell last on Scarlett. As he came toward her, she saw that there was grief in his eyes and also dislike and contempt that flooded her frightened heart with guilt.
"So you finally got here," he said.
Before she could answer, Ashley started toward the closed door.
"Not you, yet," said the doctor. "She wants to speak to Scarlett."
"Doctor," said India, putting a hand on his sleeve. Though her voice was toneless, it plead more loudly than words. "Let me see her for a moment. I've been here since this morning, waiting, but she--Let me see her for a moment. I want to tell her--must tell her--that I was wrong about--something."
She did not look at Ashley or Scarlett as she spoke, but Dr. Meade allowed his cold
glance to fall on Scarlett.
"I'll see, Miss India," he said briefly. "But only if you'll give me your word not to use up her strength telling her you were wrong. She knows you were wrong and it will only worry her to hear you apologize."
Pitty began, timidly: "Please, Dr. Meade--"
"Miss Pitty, you know you'd scream and faint."
Pitty drew up her stout little body and gave the doctor glance for glance. Her eyes were
dry and there was dignity in every curve.
"Well, all right, honey, a little later," said the doctor, more kindly. "Come, Scarlett."
They tiptoed down the hall to the closed door and the doctor put his hand on Scarlett's
shoulder in a hard grip.
"Now, Miss," he whispered briefly, "no hysterics and no deathbed confessions from you or, before God, I will wring your neck! Don't give me any of your innocent stares. You know what I mean. Miss Melly is going to die easily and you aren't going to ease your own conscience by telling her anything about Ashley. I've never harmed a woman yet, but if you say anything now--you'll answer to me."
He opened the door before she could answer, pushed her into the room and closed the
door behind her. The little room, cheaply furnished in black walnut, was in semidarkness, the lamp shaded with a newspaper. It was as small and prim a room as a schoolgirl's, the narrow little low-backed bed, the plain net curtains looped back, the clean faded rag rugs on the floor, were so different from the lavishness of Scarlett's own bedroom with its towering carved furniture, pink brocade draperies and rose-strewn carpet.
Melanie lay in the bed, her figure under the counterpane shrunken and flat like a little
girl's. Two black braids fell on either side of her face and her closed eyes were sunken in twin purple circles. At the sight of her Scarlett stood transfixed, leaning against the door. Despite the gloom of the room, she could see that Melanie's face was of a waxy yellow color. It was drained of life's blood and there was a pinched look about the nose. Until that moment, Scarlett had hoped Dr. Meade was mistaken. But now she knew. In the hospitals during the war she had seen too many faces wearing this pinched look not to know what it inevitably presaged.