飘

　So　the　corn　whisky　had　been　used　by　the　whole　family！　Scarlett　thought　hysterically　that　perhaps　she　had　better　give　a　drink　to　little　Wade　and　see　if　it　would　stop　his　hiccoughs—　And　Melanie　would　not　die。　And　when　Ashley　came　home—if　he　did　come　home　。。。　No；　she　would　think　of　that　later　too。　So　much　to　think　of—later！　So　many　things　to　unravel—to　decide。　If　only　she　could　put　off　the　hour　of　reckoning　forever！　She　started　suddenly　as　a　creaking　noise　and　a　rhythmic　“Ker…bunk—ker…bunk—”　broke　the　stillness　of　the　air　outside。
　“That’s　Mammy　gettin’　the　water　to　sponge　off　the　young　Misses。　They　takes　a　heap　of　bathin’；”　explained　Dilcey；　propping　the　gourd　on　the　table　between　medicine　bottles　and　a　glass。
　Scarlett　laughed　suddenly。　Her　nerves　must　be　shredded　if　the　noise　of　the　well　windlass；　bound　up　in　her　earliest　memories；　could　frighten　her。　Dilcey　looked　at　her　steadily　as　she　laughed；　her　face　immobile　in　its　dignity；　but　Scarlett　felt　that　Dilcey　understood。　She　sank　back　in　her　chair。　If　she　could　only　be　rid　of　her　tight　stays；　the　collar　that　choked　her　and　the　slippers　still　full　of　sand　and　gravel　that　blistered　her　feet。
　The　windlass　creaked　slowly　as　the　rope　wound　up；　each　creak　bringing　the　bucket　nearer　the　top。　Soon　Mammy　would　be　with　her—Ellen’s　Mammy；　her　Mammy。　She　sat　silent；　intent　on　nothing；　while　the　baby；　already　glutted　with　milk；　whimpered　because　he　had　lost　the　friendly　nipple。　Dilcey；　silent　too；　guided　the　child’s　mouth　back；　quieting　him　in　her　arms　as　Scarlett　listened　to　the　slow　scuffing　of　Mammy’s　feet　across　the　back　yard。　How　still　the　night　air　was！　The　slightest　sounds　roared　in　her　ears。
　The　upstairs　hall　seemed　to　shake　as　Mammy’s　ponderous　weight　came　toward　the　door。　Then　Mammy　was　in　the　room；　Mammy　with　shoulders　dragged　down　by　two　heavy　wooden　buckets；　her　kind　black　face　sad　with　the　uncomprehending　sadness　of　a　monkey’s　face。
　Her　eyes　lighted　up　at　the　sight　of　Scarlett；　her　white　teeth　gleamed　as　she　set　down　the　buckets；　and　Scarlett　ran　to　her；　laying　her　head　on　the　broad；　sagging　breasts　which　had　held　so　many　heads；　black　and　white。　Here　was　something　of　stability；　thought　Scarlett；　something　of　the　old　life　that　was　unchanging。　But　Mammy’s　first　words　dispelled　this　illusion。
　“Mammy’s　chile　is　home！　Oh；　Miss　Scarlett；　now　dat　Miss　Ellen’s　in　de　grabe；　whut　is　we　gwine　ter　do？　Oh；　Miss　Scarlett；　effen　Ah　wuz　jes’　daid　longside　Miss　Ellen！　Ah　kain　make　out　widout　Miss　Ellen。　Ain’　nuthin’　lef　now　but　mizry　an’　trouble。　Jes’　weery　loads；　honey；　jes’　weery　loads。”
　As　Scarlett　lay　with　her　head　hugged　close　to　Mammy’s　breast；　two　words　caught　her　attention；　“weery　loads。”　Those　were　the　words　which　had　hummed　in　her　brain　that　afternoon　so　monotonously　they　had　sickened　her。　Now；　she　remembered　the　rest　of　the　song；　remembered　with　a　sinking　heart：
　
　“Just　a　few　more　days　for　to　tote　the　weary　load！
　No　matter；　‘twill　never　be　light！
　Just　a　few　more　days　till　we　totter　in　the　road—”
　
　“No　matter；　‘twill　never　be　light”—she　took　the　words　to　her　tired　mind。　Would　her　load　never　be　light？　Was　coming　home　to　Tara　to　mean；　not　blessed　surcease；　but　only　more　loads　to　carry？　She　slipped　from　Mammy’s　arms　and；　reaching　up；　patted　the　wrinkled　black　face。
　“Honey；　yo’　han’s！”　Mammy　took　the　small　hands　with　their　blisters　and　blood　clots　in　hers　and　looked　at　them　with　horrified　disapproval。　“Miss　Scarlett；　Ah　done　tole　you　an’　tole　you　dat　you　kin　allus　tell　a　lady　by　her　han’s　an’—yo’　face　sunbuhnt　too！”
　Poor　Mammy；　still　the　martinet　about　such　unimportant　things　even　though　war　and　death　had　just　passed　over　her　head！　In　another　moment　she　would　be　saying　that　young　Misses　with　blistered　hands　and　freckles　most　generally　didn’t　never　catch　husbands　and　Scarlett　forestalled　the　remark。
　“Mammy；　I　want　you　to　tell　me　about　Mother。　I　couldn’t　bear　to　hear　Pa　talk　about　her。”
　Tears　started　from　Mammy’s　eyes　as　she　leaned　down　to　pick　up　the　buckets。　In　silence　she　carried　them　to　the　bedside　and；　turning　down　the　sheet；　began　pulling　up　the　night　clothes　of　Suellen　and　Carreen。　Scarlett；　peering　at　her　sisters　in　the　dim　flaring　light；　saw　that　Carreen　wore　a　nightgown；　clean　but　in　tatters；　and　Suellen　lay　wrapped　in　an　old　negligee；　a　brown　linen　garment　heavy　with　tagging　ends　of　Irish　lace。　Mammy　cried　silently　as　she　sponged　the　gaunt　bodies；　using　the　remnant　of　an　old　apron　as　a　cloth。
　“Miss　Scarlett；　it　wuz　dem　Slatterys；　dem　trashy；　no…good；　low…down　po’…w’ite　Slatterys　dat　kilt　Miss　Ellen。　Ah　done　tole　her　an’　tole　her　it　doan　do　no　good　doin’　things　fer　trashy　folks；　but　Miss　Ellen　wuz　so　sot　in　her　ways　an’　her　heart　so　sof’　she　couldn’　never　say　no　ter　nobody　whut　needed　her。”
　“Slatterys？”　questioned　Scarlett；　bewildered。　“How　do　they　come　in？”
　“Dey　wuz　sick　wid　disyere　thing；”　Mammy　gestured　with　her　rag　to　the　two　naked　girls；　dripping　with　water　on　their　damp　sheet。　“Ole　Miss　Slattery’s　gal；　Emmie；　come　down　wid　it　an’　Miss　Slattery　come　hotfootin’　it　up　hyah　affer　Miss　Ellen；　lak　she　allus　done　w’en　anything　wrong。　Why　din’　she　nuss　her　own？　Miss　Ellen　had　mo’n　she　could　tote　anyways。　But　Miss　Ellen　she　went　down　dar　an’　she　nuss　Emmie。　An’　Miss　Ellen　wuzn’　well　a…tall　her…seff；　Miss　Scarlett。　Yo’　ma　hadn’　been　well　fer　de　longes’。　Dey　ain’　been　too　much　ter　eat　roun’　hyah；　wid　de　commissary　stealin’　eve’y　thing　us　growed。　An’　Miss　Ellen　eat　lak　a　bird　anyways。　An’　Ah　tole　her　an’　tole　her　ter　let　dem　w’ite　trash　alone；　but　she　din’　pay　me　no　mine。　Well’m；　“bout　de　time　Emmie　look　lak　she　gittin’　better；　Miss　Carreen　come　down　wid　it。　Yas’m；　de　typhoy　fly　right　up　de　road　an’　ketch　Miss　Carreen；　an’　den　down　come　Miss　Suellen。　So　Miss　Ellen；　she　tuck　an’　nuss　dem　too。
　“Wid　all　de　fightin’　up　de　road　an’　de　Yankees　‘cross　de　river　an’　us　not　knowin’　whut　wuz　gwine　ter　happen　ter　us　an’　de　fe’el　han’s　runnin”　off　eve’y　night；　Ah’s　‘bout　crazy。　But　Miss　Ellen　jes’　as　cool　as　a　cucumber。　‘Cept　she　wuz　worried　ter　a　ghos’　‘bout　de　young　Misses　kase　we　couldn’　git　no　medicines　nor　nuthin’。　An’　one　night　she　say　ter　me　affer　we　done　sponge　off　de　young　Misses　‘bout　ten　times；　she　say；　‘Mammy；　effen　Ah　could　sell　mah　soul；　Ah’d　sell　it　fer　some　ice　ter　put　on　mah　gals’　haids。’
　“She　wouldn’t　let　Mist’　Gerald　come　in　hyah；　nor　Rosa　nor　Teena；　nobody　but　me；　kase　Ah　done　had　de　typhoy。　An’　den　it　tuck　her；　Miss　Scarlett；　an’　Ah　seed　right　off　dat　twarnt　no　use。”
　Mammy　straightened　up　and；　raising　her　apron；　dried　her　streaming　eyes。
　“She　went　fas’；　Miss　Scarlett；　an’　even　dat　nice　Yankee　doctah　couldn’　do　nuthin’　fer　her。　She　din’　know　nuthin’　a…tall。　Ah　call　ter　her　an’　talk　ter　her　but　she　din’　even　know　her　own　Mammy。”
　“Did　she—did　she　ever　mention　me—call　for　me？”
　“No；　honey。　She　think　she　is　lil　gal　back　in　Savannah；　She　din’　call　nobody　by　name。”
　Dilcey　stirred　and　laid　the　sleeping　baby　across　her　knees。
　“Yes’m；　she　did。　She　did　call　somebody。”
　“You　hesh　yo’　mouf；　you　Injun…nigger！”　Mammy　turned　with　threatening　violence　on　Dilcey。
　“Hush；　Mammy！　Who　did　she　call；　Dilcey？　Pa？”
　“No’m。　Not　yo’　pa。　It　wuz　the　night　the　cotton　buhnt—”
　“Has　the　cotton　gone—tell　me　quickly！”
　“Yes’m；　it　buhnt　up。　The　sojers　rolls　it　out　of　the　shed　into　the　back　yard　and　hollers；　‘Here　the　bigges’　bonfiah　in　Georgia；’　and　tech　it　off。”
　Three　years　of　stored　cotton—one　hundred　and　fifty　thousand　dollars；　all　in　one　blaze！
　“And　the　fiah　light　up　the　place　lak　it　wuz　day—we　wuz　scared　the　house　would　buhn；　too；　and　it　wuz　so　bright　in　this　hyah　room　that　you　could　mos’　pick　a　needle　offen　the　flo’。　And　w’en　the　light　shine　in　the　winder；　it　look　lak　it　wake　Miss　Ellen　up　and　she　set　right　up　in　bed　and　cry　out　loud；　time　and　again：　“Feeleep！　Feeleep！’　I　ain’　never　heerd　no　sech　name　but　it　wuz　a　name　and　she　wuz　callin’　him。”
　Mammy　stood　as　though　turned　to　stone　glaring　at　Dilcey　but　Scarlett　dropped　her　head　into　her　hands。　Philippe—who　was　he　and　what　had　he　been　to　Mother　that　she　died　calling　him？
　
　The　long　road　from　Atlanta　to　Tara　had　ended；　ended　in　a　blank　wall；　the　road　that　was　to　end　in　Ellen’s　arms。　Never　again　could　Scarlett　lie　down；　as　a　child；　secure　beneath　her　father’s　roof　with　the　protection　of　her　mother’s　love　wrapped　about　her　like　an　eiderdown　quilt。　There　was　no　security　or　haven　to　which　she　could　turn　now。　No　turning　or　twisting　would　avoid　this　dead　end　to　which　she　had　come。　There　was　no　one　on　whose　shoulders　she　could　rest　her　burdens。　Her　father　was　old　and　stunned；　her　sisters　ill；　Melanie　frail　and　weak；　the　children　helpless；　and　the　negroes　looking　up。　to　her　with　childlike　faith；　clinging　to　her　skirts；　knowing　that　Ellen’s　daughter　would　be　the　refuge　Ellen　had　always　been。
　Through　the　window；　in　the　faint　light　of　the　rising　moon；　Tara　stretched　before　her；　negroes　gone；　acres　desolate；　barns　ruined；　like　a　body　bleeding　under　her　eyes；　like　her　own　body；　slowly　bleeding。　This　was　the　end　of　the　road；　quivering　old　age；　sickness；　hungry　mouths；　helpless　hands　plucking