Her mind was working feverishly. Ashley couldn’t go North! She might never see him again. Even though she had not seen him in months, had not spoken to him alone since that fateful scene in the orchard, there had not been a day when she had not thought of him, been glad he was sheltered under her roof. She had never sent a dollar to Will that she had not been pleased that it would make Ashley’s life easier. Of course, he wasn’t any good as a farmer. Ashley was bred for better things, she thought proudly. He was born to rule, to live in a large house, ride fine horses, read books of poetry and tell negroes what to do. That there were no more mansions and horses and negroes and few books did not alter matters. Ashley wasn’t bred to plow and split rails. No wonder he wanted to leave Tara.
But she could not let him go away from Georgia. If necessary, she would bully Frank into giving him a job in the store, make Frank turn off the boy he now had behind the counter. But, no—Ashley’s place was no more behind a counter than it was behind a plow. A Wilkes a shopkeeper! Oh, never that! There must be something—why, her mill of course! Her relief at the thought was so great that she smiled. But would he accept an offer from her? Would he still think it was charity? She must manage it so he would think he was doing her a favor. She would discharge Mr. Johnson and put Ashley in charge of the old mill while Hugh operated the new one. She would explain to Ashley how Frank’s ill health and the pressure of work at the store kept him from helping her, and she would plead her condition as another reason why she needed his help.
She would make him realize somehow that she couldn’t do without his aid at this time. And she would give him a half-interest in the mill, if he would only take it over—anything just to have him near her, anything to see that bright smile light up his face, anything for the chance of catching an unguarded look in his eyes that showed he still cared. But, she promised herself, never, never would she again try to prod him into words of love, never again would she try to make him throw away that foolish honor he valued more than love. Somehow, she must delicately convey to him this new resolution of hers. Otherwise he might refuse, fearing another scene such as that last terrible one had been.
“I can get him something to do in Atlanta,” she said.
“Well, that’s yours and Ashley’s business,” said Will and put the straw back in his mouth. “Giddap, Sherman. Now, Scarlett, there’s somethin’ else I’ve got to ask you before I tell you about your pa. I won’t have you lightin’ into Suellen. What she’s done, she’s done, and you snatchin’ her baldheaded won’t bring Mr. O’Hara back. Besides she honestly thought she was actin’ for the best!”
“I wanted to ask you about that What is all this about Suellen? Alex talked riddles and said she ought to be whipped. What has she done?”
“Yes, folks are pretty riled up about her. Everybody I run into this afternoon in Jonesboro was promisin’ to cut her dead the next time they seen her, but maybe they’ll get over it. Now, promise me you won’t light into her. I won’t be havin’ no quarrelin’ tonight with Mr. O’Hara layin’ dead in the parlor.”
He won’t be having any quarreling! thought Scarlett, indignantly. He talks like Tara was his already!
And then she thought of Gerald, dead in the parlor, and suddenly she began to cry, cry in bitter, gulping sobs. Will put his arm around her, drew her comfortably close and said nothing.
As they jolted slowly down the darkening road, her head on his shoulder, her bonnet askew, she had forgotten the Gerald of the last two years, the vague old gentleman who stared at doors waiting for a woman who would never enter. She was remembering the vital, virile old man with his mane of crisp white hair, his bellowing cheerfulness, his stamping boots, his clumsy jokes, his generosity. She remembered how, as a child, he had seemed the most wonderful man in the world, this blustering father who carried her before him on his saddle when he jumped fences, turned her up and paddled her when she was naughty, and then cried when she cried and gave her quarters to get her to hush. She remembered him coming home from Charleston and Atlanta laden with gifts that were never appropriate, remembered too, with a faint smile through tears, how he came home in the wee hours from Court Day at Jonesboro, drunk as seven earls, jumping fences, his rollicking voice raised in “The Wearin’ o’ the Green.” And how abashed he was, facing Ellen on the morning after. Well, he was with Ellen now.
“Why didn’t you write me that he was ill? I’d have come so fast—”
“He warn’t ill, not a minute. Here, honey, take my handkerchief and I’ll tell you all about it.”
She blew her nose on his bandanna, for she had come from Atlanta without even a handkerchief, and settled back into the crook of Will’s arm. How nice Will was. Nothing ever upset him.
“Well, it was this way, Scarlett. You been sendin’ us money right along and Ashley and me, well, we’ve paid taxes and bought the mule and seeds and what-all and a few hogs and chickens. Miss Melly’s done mighty well with the hens, yes sir, she has. She’s a fine woman, Miss Melly is. Well, anyway, after we bought things for Tara, there warn’t so much left over for folderols, but none of us warn’t complainin’. Except Suellen.
