Her mind was as if a cyclone had gone through it, and it seemed strange that the dining room where they sat should be so placid, so unchanged from what it had always been. The heavy mahogany table and sideboards, themassive silver, the bright rag rugs on the shining floor were all in their accustomed places, just as if nothing had happened.It was a friendly and comfortable room and, ordinarily, Scarlett loved the quiet hours which the family spent there after supper;but tonight she hated the sight of it and, if she had not feared her father's loudly bawled questions, she would have slipped away, down the dark hall to Ellen's little office and cried out her sorrow on the old sofa.
That was the room that Scarlett liked best in all the house. There, Ellen sat before her tall secretary each morning, keeping the accounts of the plantation and listening to the reports of Jonas Wilkerson, the overseer.There also the family idled while Ellen's quill scratched across her ledgers, Gerald in the old rocker, the girls on the sagging cushions of the sofa that was too battered and worn for the front of the house.Scarlett longed to be there now, alone with Ellen, so she could put her head in her mother's lap and cry in peace.Wouldn't Mother ever come home?
Then, wheels ground sharply on the graveled driveway, and the soft murmur of Ellen's voice dismissing the coachman floated into the room. The whole group looked up eagerly as she entered rapidly, her hoops swaying, her face tired and sad.There entered with her the faint fragrance of lemon verbena sachet, which seemed always to creep from the folds of her dresses, a fragrance that was always linked in Scarlett's mind with her mother.Mammy followed at a few paces, the leather bag in her hand, her underlip pushed out and her brow lowering.Mammy muttered darkly to herself as she waddled, taking care that her remarks were pitched too low to be understood but loud enough to register her unqualified disapproval.
“I am sorry I am so late,”said Ellen, slipping her plaid shawl from drooping shoulders and handing it to Scarlett, whose cheek she patted in passing.
Gerald's face had brightened as if by magic at her entrance.
“Is the brat baptized?”he questioned.
“Yes, and dead, poor thing,”said Ellen.“I feared Emmie would die, too, but I think she will live.”
The girls'faces turned to her, startled and questioning, and Gerald waggedhis head philosophically.
“Well,'tis better so that the brat is dead, no doubt, poor fatherle—”
“It is late. We had better have prayers now,”interrupted Ellen so smoothly that, if Scarlett had not known her mother well, the interruption would have passed unnoticed.
It would be interesting to know who was the father of Emmie Slattery's baby, but Scarlett knew she would never learn the truth of the matter if she waited to hear it from her mother. Scarlett suspected Jonas Wilkerson, for she had frequently seen him walking down the road with Emmie at nightfall.Jonas was a Yankee and a bachelor, and the fact that he was an overseer forever barred him from any contact with the County social life.There was no family of any standing into which he could marry, no people with whom he could associate except the Slatterys and rif fraff like them.As he was several cuts above the Slatterys in education, it was only natural that he should not want to marry Emmie, no matter how often he might walk with her in the twilight.
Scarlett sighed, for her curiosity was sharp. Things were always happening under her mother's eyes which she noticed no more than if they had not happened at all.Ellen ignored all things contrary to her ideas of propriety and tried to teach Scarlett to do the same, but with poor success.
Ellen had stepped to the mantel to take her rosary beads from the small inlaid casket in which they always reposed when Mammy spoke up with firmness.
“Miss Ellen, you gwine eat some supper befo'you does any prayin'.”
“Thank you, Mammy, but I am not hungry.”
“Ah gwine fix yo'supper mahseff an'you eats it,”said Mammy, her brow furrowed with indignation as she started down the hall for the kitchen.“Poke!”she called,“tell Cookie stir up de fiah. Miss Ellen home.”
As the boards shuddered under her weight, the soliloquy she had been muttering in the front hall grew louder and louder, coming clearly to the ears of the family in the dining room.
“Ah has said time an'again, it doan do no good doin'nuthin'fer w'ite trash. Dey is de shifiesses, mos'ungrateful passel of no-counts livin’.An’Miss Ellen got no bizness weahin’herseff out waitin’on folks dat did dey be wuthshootin’dey’d have niggers ter wait on dem.An’Ah has said—”
Her voice trailed off as she went down the long open passageway, covered only by a roof, that led into the kitchen. Mammy had her own method of letting her owners know exactly where she stood on all matters.She knew it was beneath the dignity of quality white folks to pay the slightest attention to what a darky said when she was just grumbling to herself.She knew that to uphold this dignity, they must ignore what she said, even if she stood in the next room and almost shouted.It protected her from reproof, and it left no doubt in anyone's mind as to her exact views on any subject.
Pork entered the room, bearing a plate, silver and a napkin. He was followed closely by Jack, a black little boy of ten, hastily buttoning a white linen jacket with one hand and bearing in the other a fly-swisher, made of thin strips of newspaper tied to a reed longer than he was.Ellen had a beautiful peacock-feather fly-brusher, but it was used only on very special occasions and then only after domestic struggle, due to the obstinate conviction of Pork, Cookie and Mammy that peacock feathers were bad luck.
Ellen sat down in the chair which Gerald pulled out for her and four voices attacked her.
“Mother, the lace is loose on my new ball dress and I want to wear it tomorrow night at Twelve Oaks. Won't you please fix it?”