Light wavered into the room as Pork entered carrying high a half-burned candle stuck in a saucer.The dark cave came to life,the sagging old sofa on which they sat,the tall secretary reaching toward the ceiling with Mother's fragile carved chair before it,the racks of pigeonholes,still stuffed with papers written in her fine hand,the worn carpet—all,all were the same,except that Ellen was not there,Ellen with the faint scent of lemon verbena sachet and the sweet look in her tip-tilted eyes.Scarlett felt a small pain in her heart as of nerves numbed by a deep wound,struggling to make themselves felt again.She must not let them come to life now;there was all the rest of her life ahead of her in which they could ache.But,not now!Please,God,not now!
She looked into Gerald's putty-colored face and,for the first time in her life,she saw him unshaven,his once florid face covered with silvery bristles.Pork placed the candle on the candle stand and came to her side.Scarlett felt that if he had been a dog he would have laid his muzzle in her lap and whined for a kind hand upon his head.
“Pork,how many darkies are here?”
“Miss Scarlett,dem trashy niggers done runned away an'some of dem went off wid de Yankees an'—”
“How many are left?”
“Dey's me,Miss Scarlett,an'Mammy.She been nussin'de young Misses all day.An'Dilcey,she settin'up wid de young Misses now.Us three,Miss Scarlett.”
“Us three”where there had been a hundred.Scarlett with an effort lifted her head on her aching neck.She knew she must keep her voice steady.To her surprise,words came out as coolly and naturally as if there had never been a war and she could,by waving her hand,call ten house servants to her.
“Pork,I'm starving.Is there anything to eat?”
“No'm.Dey tuck it all.”
“But the garden?”
“Dey tuhned dey hawses loose in it.”
“Even the sweet potato hills?”
Something almost like a pleased smile broke over his thick lips.
“Miss Scarlett,Ah done fergit de yams.Ah specs dey's right dar.Dem Yankee folks ain'never seed no yams an'dey thinks dey's jest roots an'—”
“The moon will be up soon.You go out and dig us some and roast them.There's no corn meal?No dried peas?No chickens?”
“No'm.No'm.Whut chickens dey din'eat right hyah dey cah'ied off 'cross dey saddles.”
They—They—They—Was there no end to what “They”had done?Was it not enough to burn and kill?Must they also leave women and children and helpless negroes to starve in a country which they had desolated?
“Miss Scarlett,Ah got some apples Mammy buhied unner de house.We been eatin'on dem today.”
“Bring them before you dig the potatoes.And,Pork—I—I feel so faint.Is there any wine in the cellar,even blackberry?”
“Oh,Miss Scarlett,de cellar wuz de fust place dey went.”
A swimming nausea compounded of hunger,sleeplessness,exhaustion and stunning blows came on suddenly and she gripped the carved roses under her hand.
“No wine,”she said dully,remembering the endless rows of bottles in the cellar.A memory stirred.
“Pork,what of the corn whisky Pa buried in the oak barrel under the scuppernong arbor?”
Another ghost of a smile lit the black face,a smile of pleasure and respect.
“Miss Scarlett,you sho is de beatenes'chile!Ah done plum fergit dat bah'l.But,Miss Scarlett,dat whisky ain'no good.Ain'been dar but 'bout a year an'whisky ain'no good fer ladies nohow.”
How stupid negroes were!They never thought of anything unless they were told.And the Yankees wanted to free them.
“It'll be good enough for this lady and for Pa.Hurry,Pork,and dig it up and bring us two glasses and some mint and sugar and I'll mix a julep.”
His face was reproachful.
“Miss Scarlett,you knows dey ain'been no sugar at Tara fer de longes'.An'dey hawses done et up all de mint an'dey done broke all de glasses.”
“If he says ‘They’once more,I'll scream.I can't help it,”she thought,and then,aloud:“Well,hurry and get the whisky quickly.We'll take it neat.”And,as he turned:“Wait,Pork.There's so many things to do that I can't seem to think....Oh,yes，I brought home a horse and a cow and the cow needs milking,badly,and unharness the horse and water him.Go tell Mammy to look after the cow.Tell her she's got to fix the cow up somehow.Miss Melanie's baby will die if he doesn't get something to eat and—”
“Miss Melly ain'—kain—?”Pork paused delicately.
“Miss Melanie has no milk.”Dear God,but Mother would faint at that!
“Well,Miss Scarlett,mah Dilcey ten'ter Miss Melly's chile.Mah Dilcey got a new chile herseff an'she got mo'n nuff fer both.”
“You've got a new baby,Pork?”
Babies,babies,babies.Why did God make so many babies?But no,God didn't make them.Stupid people made them.
“Yas'm,big fat black boy.He—”
“Go tell Dilcey to leave the girls.I'll look after them.Tell her to nurse Miss Melanie's baby and do what she can for Miss Melanie.Tell Mammy to look after the cow and put that poor horse in the stable.”
“Dey ain'no stable,Miss Scarlett.Dey use it fer fiah wood.”
“Don't tell me any more what ‘They'did.Tell Dilcey to look after them.And you,Pork,go dig up that whisky and then some potatoes.”
“But,Miss Scarlett,Ah ain'got no light ter dig by.”
“You can use a stick of firewood,can't you?”
“Dey ain'no fiah wood—Dey—”
“Do something....I don't care what.But dig those things and dig them fast.Now,hurry.”
Pork scurried from the room as her voice roughened and Scarlett was left alone with Gerald.She patted his leg gently.She noted how shrunken were the thighs that once bulged with saddle muscles.She must do something to drag him from his apathy—but she could not ask about Mother.That must come later,when she could stand it.
“Why didn't they burn Tara?”
Gerald stared at her for a moment as if not hearing her and she repeated her question.
“Why—”he fumbled,“they used the house as a headquarters.”
“Yankees—in this house?”
A feeling that the beloved walls had been defiled rose in her.This house,sacred because Ellen had lived in it,and those—those—in it.