飘

h　Ellen　O’Hara　always　carried　the　bandages　and　medicines　she　used　in　doctoring　the　slaves。　Mammy’s　lips　were　large　and　pendulous　and；　when　indignant；　she　could　push　out　her　lower　one　to　twice　its　normal　length。　It　was　pushed　out　now；　and　Scarlett　knew　that　Mammy　was　seething　over　something　of　which　she　did　not　approve。
　“Mr。　O’Hara；”　called　Ellen　as　she　saw　the　two　coming　up　the　driveway—Ellen　belonged　to　a　generation　that　was　formal　even　after　seventeen　years　of　wedlock　and　the　bearing　of　six　children—”Mr。　O’Hara；　there　is　illness　at　the　Slattery　house。　Emmie’s　baby　has　been　born　and　is　dying　and　must　be　baptized。　I　am　going　there　with　Mammy　to　see　what　I　can　do。”
　Her　voice　was　raised　questioningly；　as　though　she　hung　on　Gerald’s　assent　to　her　plan；　a　mere　formality　but　one　dear　to　the　heart　of　Gerald。
　“In　the　name　of　God！”　blustered　Gerald。　“Why　should　those　white　trash　take　you　away　just　at　your　supper　hour　and　just　when　I’m　wanting　to　tell　you　about　the　war　talk　that’s　going　on　in　Atlanta！　Go；　Mrs。　O’Hara。　You’d　not　rest　easy　on　your　pillow　the　night　if　there　was　trouble　abroad　and　you　not　there　to　help。”
　“She　doan　never　git　no　res’　on　her　piller　fer　hoppin’　up　at　night　time　nursin’　niggers　an　po’　w’ite　trash　dat　could　ten’　to　deyseff；”　grumbled　Mammy　in　a　monotone　as　she　went　down　the　stairs　toward　the　carriage　which　was　waiting　in　the　side　drive。
　“Take　my　place　at　the　table；　dear；”　said　Ellen；　patting　Scarlett’s　cheek　softly　with　a　mittened　hand。
　In　spite　of　her　choked…back　tears；　Scarlett　thrilled　to　the　never…failing　magic　of　her　mother’s　touch；　to　the　faint　fragrance　of　lemon　verbena　sachet　that　came　from　her　rustling　silk　dress。　To　Scarlett；　there　was　something　breath…taking　about　Ellen　O’Hara；　a　miracle　that　lived　in　the　house　with　her　and　awed　her　and　charmed　and　soothed　her。
　Gerald　helped　his　wife　into　the　carriage　and　gave　orders　to　the　coachman　to　drive　carefully。　Toby；　who　had　handled　Gerald’s　horses　for　twenty　years；　pushed　out　his　lips　in　mute　indignation　at　being　told　how　to　conduct　his　own　business。　Driving　off；　with　Mammy　beside　him；　each　was　a　perfect　picture　of　pouting　African　disapproval。
　“If　I　didn’t　do　so　much　for　those　trashy　Slatterys　that　they’d　have　to　pay　money　for　elsewhere；”　fumed　Gerald；　“they’d　be　willing　to　sell　me　their　miserable　few　acres　of　swamp　bottom；　and　the　County　would　be　well　rid　of　them。”　Then；　brightening；　in　anticipation　of　one　of　his　practical　jokes：　“Come　daughter；　let’s　go　tell　Pork　that　instead　of　buying　Dilcey；　I’ve　sold　him　to　John　Wilkes。”
　He　tossed　the　reins　of　his　horse　to　a　small　pickaninny　standing　near　and　started　up　the　steps。　He　had　already　forgotten　Scarlett’s　heartbreak　and　his　mind　was　only　on　plaguing　his　valet。　Scarlett　slowly　climbed　the　steps　after　him；　her　feet　leaden。　She　thought　that；　after　all；　a　mating　between　herself　and　Ashley　could　be　no　queerer　than　that　of　her　father　and　Ellen　Robillard　O’Hara。　As　always；　she　wondered　how　her　loud；　insensitive　father　had　managed　to　marry　a　woman　like　her　mother；　for　never　were　two　people　further　apart　in　birth；　breeding　and　habits　of　mind。
　
　CHAPTER　III
　ELLEN　O’HARA　was　thirty…two　years　old；　and；　according　to　the　standards　of　her　day；　she　was　a　middle…aged　woman；　one　who　had　borne　six　children　and　buried　three。　She　was　a　tall　woman；　standing　a　head　higher　than　her　fiery　little　husband；　but　she　moved　with　such　quiet　grace　in　her　swaying　hoops　that　the　height　attracted　no　attention　to　itself。　Her　neck；　rising　from　the　black　taffeta　sheath　of　her　basque；　was　creamy…skinned；　rounded　and　slender；　and　it　seemed　always　tilted　slightly　backward　by　the　weight　of　her　luxuriant　hair　in　its　net　at　the　back　of　her　head。　From　her　French　mother；　whose　parents　had　fled　Haiti　in　the　Revolution　of　1791；　had　come　her　slanting　dark　eyes；　shadowed　by　inky　lashes；　and　her　black　hair；　and　from　her　father；　a　soldier　of　Napoleon；　she　had　her　long　straight　nose　and　her　square…cut　jaw　that　was　softened　by　the　gentle　curving　of　her　cheeks。　But　only　from　life　could　Ellen’s　face　have　acquired　its　look　of　pride　that　had　no　haughtiness；　its　graciousness；　its　melancholy　and　its　utter　lack　of　humor。
　She　would　have　been　a　strikingly　beautiful　woman　had　there　been　any　glow　in　her　eyes；　any　responsive　warmth　in　her　smile　or　any　spontaneity　in　her　voice　that　fell　with　gentle　melody　on　the　ears　of　her　family　and　her　servants。　She　spoke　in　the　soft　slurring　voice　of　the　coastal　Georgian；　liquid　of　vowels；　kind　to　consonants　and　with　the　barest　trace　of　French　accent。　It　was　a　voice　never　raised　in　command　to　a　servant　or　reproof　to　a　child　but　a　voice　that　was　obeyed　instantly　at　Tara；　where　her　husband’s　blustering　and　roaring　were　quietly　disregarded。
　As　far　back　as　Scarlett　could　remember；　her　mother　had　always　been　the　same；　her　voice　soft　and　sweet　whether　in　praising　or　in　reproving；　her　manner　efficient　and　unruffled　despite　the　daily　emergencies　of　Gerald’s　turbulent　household；　her　spirit　always　calm　and　her　back　unbowed；　even　in　the　deaths　of　her　three　baby　sons。　Scarlett　had　never　seen　her　mother’s　back　touch　the　back　of　any　chair　on　which　she　sat。　Nor　had　she　ever　seen　her　sit　down　without　a　bit　of　needlework　in　her　hands；　except　at　mealtime；　while　attending　the　sick　or　while　working　at　the　bookkeeping　of　the　plantation。　It　was　delicate　embroidery　if　company　were　present；　but　at　other　times　her　hands　were　occupied　with　Gerald’s　ruffled　shirts；　the　girls’　dresses　or　garments　for　the　slaves。　Scarlett　could　not　imagine　her　mother’s　hands　without　her　gold　thimble　or　her　rustling　figure　unaccompanied　by　the　small　negro　girl　whose　sole　function　in　life　was　to　remove　basting　threads　and　carry　the　rosewood　sewing　box　from　room　to　room；　as　Ellen　moved　about　the　house　superintending　the　cooking；　the　cleaning　and　the　wholesale　clothes…making　for　the　plantation。
　She　had　never　seen　her　mother　stirred　from　her　austere　placidity；　nor　her　personal　appointments　anything　but　perfect；　no　matter　what　the　hour　of　day　or　night。　When　Ellen　was　dressing　for　a　ball　or　for　guests　or　even　to　go　to　Jonesboro　for　Court　Day；　it　frequently　required　two　hours；　two　maids　and　Mammy　to　turn　her　out　to　her　own　satisfaction；　but　her　swift　toilets　in　times　of　emergency　were　amazing。
　Scarlett；　whose　room　lay　across　the　hall　from　her　mother’s；　knew　from　babyhood　the　soft　sound　of　scurrying　bare　black　feet　on　the　hardwood　floor　in　the　hours　of　dawn；　the　urgent　tappings　on　her　mother’s　door；　and　the　muffled；　frightened　negro　voices　that　whispered　of　sickness　and　birth　and　death　in　the　long　row　of　whitewashed　cabins　in　the　quarters。　As　a　child；　she　often　had　crept　to　the　door　and；　peeping　through　the　tiniest　crack；　had　seen　Ellen　emerge　from　the　dark　room；　where　Gerald’s　snores　were　rhythmic　and　untroubled；　into　the　flickering　light　of　an　upheld　candle；　her　medicine　case　under　her　arm；　her　hair　smoothed　neatly　place；　and　no　button　on　her　basque　unlooped。
　It　had　always　been　so　soothing　to　Scarlett　to　hear　her　mother　whisper；　firmly　but　compassionately；　as　she　tiptoed　down　the　hall：　“Hush；　not　so　loudly。　You　will　wake　Mr。　O’Hara。　They　are　not　sick　enough　to　die。”
　Yes；　it　was　good　to　creep　back　into　bed　and　know　that　Ellen　was　abroad　in　the　night　and　everything　was　right。
　In　the　mornings；　after　all…night　sessions　at　births　and　deaths；　when　old　Dr。　Fontaine　and　young　Dr。　Fontaine　were　both　out　on　calls　and　could　not　be　found　to　help　her；　Ellen　presided　at　the　breakfast　table　as　usual；　her　dark　eyes　circled　with　weariness　but　her　voice　and　manner　revealing　none　of　the　strain。　There　was　a　steely　quality　under　her　stately　gentleness　that　awed　the　whole　household；　Gerald　as　well　as　the　girls；　though　he　would　have　died　rather　than　admit　it。
　Sometimes　when　Scarlett　tiptoed　at　night　to　kiss　her　tall　mother’s　cheek；　she　looked　up　at　the　mouth　with　its　too　short；　too　tender　upper　lip；　a　mouth　too　easily　hurt　by　the　world；　and　wondered　if　it　had　ever　curved　in　silly　girlish　giggling　or　whispered　secrets　through　long　nights　to　intimate　girl　friends。　But　no；　that　wasn’t　possible。　Mother　had　always　been　just　as　she　was；　a　pillar　of　strength；　a　fount　of　wisdom；　the　one　person　who　knew　the　answers　to　everything。
　But　Scarlett　was　wrong；　for；　years　before；　Ellen　Robillard　of　Savannah　had　giggled　as　inexplicably　as　any　fifteen…year…old　in　that　charming　coastal　city　and　whispered　the　long　nights　through　with　friends；　exchanging　confidences；　telling　all　secrets　but　one。　That　was　the　year　when　Gerald　O’Hara；　twenty…eight　years　older　than　she；　came　into　her　life—the　year；　too；　when　youth　and　her　black…eyed　cousin；　Philippe　Robillard；　went　out　of　it。　For　when　Philippe；　with　his　snapping　eyes　and　his　wild　ways；　left　Savannah　forever；　he　took　with　him　the　glow　that　was　in　Ellen’s　heart　and　left　for　the　bandy…legged　little　Irishman　who　married　her　only　a　gentle　shell。
　But　that　was　enough　for　Gerald；　overwhelmed　at　his　unbelievable　luck　in　actually　marrying　her。　And　if　anything　was　gone　from　her；　he　never　missed　it。　Shrewd　man　that　he　was；　he　knew　that　it　was　no　less　than　a　miracle　that　he；　an　Irishman　with　nothing　of　family　and　wealth　to　recommend　him；　should　win　the　daughter　of　one　of　the　wealthies