Gone with the Wind / Унесённые ветром. Маргарет Митчелл

at Melanie’s feet.

      “Yes!” whispered Charles. “I love you! You are the most – the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known and the sweetest and the kindest and I love you with all my heart. I cannot hope that you could love anyone like me but, my dear Miss O’Hara, I will do anything in the world to make you love me. I will —”

      Charles stopped, for he couldn’t think of anything difficult enough to really prove his love to Scarlett, so he said simply: “I want to marry you.”

      Scarlett came back to earth at the sound of the word “marry.” She had been thinking of marriage and of Ashley, and she looked at Charles with irritation. She was used to men asking her to marry them, men much more attractive than Charles Hamilton. She only saw a boy of twenty, red as a beet and looking very silly. She wished that she could tell him how silly he looked. But automatically, the words Ellen had taught her to say rose to her lips and she murmured: “Mr. Hamilton, this is all so sudden that I do not know what to say.”

      And Charles swallowed the bait[20] eagerly: “I would wait forever! Please, Miss O’Hara, tell me that I may hope!”

      Scarlett could hear Ashley and Melanie discussing Mr. Thackeray’s and Mr. Dickens’s works and it was so boring that the prospect looked bright to Scarlett and she turned beaming eyes on Charles and smiled.

      “Ashley, you have not favored us with your opinion,” said Jim Tarleton, turning from the group of shouting men. There was no one there so handsome, thought Scarlett. Even the older men stopped to listen to his words.

      “Why, gentlemen, if Georgia fights, I’ll go with her. Why else would I have joined the Troop?” he said. “But, like Father, I hope the Yankees will let us go in peace and that there will be no fighting.”

      Of all the group there was only one who seemed calm. Scarlett’s eyes turned to Rhett Butler, who leaned against a tree, his hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets. He stood alone and had uttered no word as the conversation grew hotter. There was contempt in his black eyes – contempt, as if he listened to the braggings of children. He listened quietly until Stuart Tarleton repeated: “Why, we could lick them in a month! A month – why, one battle —”

      “Gentlemen,” said Rhett Butler, not moving from his position against the tree or taking his hands from his pockets, “may I say a word?”

      The group turned toward him.

      “Has any one of you gentlemen ever thought that there’s not a cannon factory south of the Mason-Dixon Line? Or how few iron foundries there are in the South? Or woolen mills or cotton factories? Have you thought that we would not have a single warship and that the Yankee fleet could bottle up our harbors in a week, so that we could not sell our cotton abroad?”

      “The trouble with most of us Southerners,” continued Rhett Butler, “is that we either don’t travel enough or we don’t profit enough by our travels. Now, of course, all you gentlemen are well traveled. But what have you seen? You’ve seen the hotels and the museums and the balls and the gambling houses. And you’ve come home believing that there’s no place like the South. As for me, I was Charleston born, but I have spent the last few years in the North. I have seen many things that you all have not seen. The thousands of immigrants who’d be glad to fight for the Yankees for food and a few dollars, the factories, the foundries, the shipyards, the iron and coal mines – all the things we haven’t got. Why, all we have is cotton and slaves and arrogance. They’d lick us in a month.”

      For a tense moment, there was silence.

      “Sir,” said Stuart Tarleton heavily, “what do you mean?”

      Rhett looked at him with polite but mocking eyes.

      “I mean,” he answered, “what Napoleon – perhaps you’ve heard of him? – remarked once, ‘God is on the side of the strongest battalion!’” and, turning to John Wilkes, he said with courtesy: “You promised to show me your library, sir. I fear I must go back to Jonesboro early this afternoon where a bit of business calls me.”

      He faced the crowd, clicked his heels together and bowed like a dancing master. Then he walked across the lawn with John Wilkes, his black head in the air, and the sound of his laughter floated back to the group.

      There was a startled silence and then the buzzing broke out again.

      Ashley went over to where Scarlett and Charles sat, a thoughtful and amused smile on his face.

      “Arrogant devil, isn’t he?” he observed, looking after Butler. “He looks like one of the Borgias[21].”

      Scarlett thought quickly but could remember no family in the County or Atlanta or Savannah by that name.

      “I don’t know them. Is he kin to them? Who are they?”

      An odd look came over Charles’ face, shame struggling with love. Love triumphed as he realized that it was enough for a girl to be sweet and beautiful, without having an education and he made swift answer: “The Borgias were Italians.”

      “Oh,” said Scarlett, losing interest, “foreigners.”

      She turned her prettiest smile on Ashley, but for some reason he was not looking at her. He was looking at Charles, and there was understanding in his face and a little pity.

      Scarlett stood on the landing and looked over the banisters into the hall below. It was empty. From the bedrooms on the floor above came low voices, laughter and, “Now, you didn’t, really!” and “What did he say then?” From the window on the landing, she could see the group of men, drinking from tall glasses, and she knew they would remain there until late afternoon. Ashley was not among them. Then she listened and heard his voice. He was still in the front driveway saying good-by to leaving matrons and children.

      Her heart in her throat, she went swiftly down the stairs. What if she should meet Mr. Wilkes? What excuse could she give for walking about the house when all the other girls were getting their beauty naps? Well, that had to be risked.

      Across the wide hall was the open door of the library and she entered it noiselessly. She could wait there until Ashley finished his adieux and then call to him when he came into the house.

      The library was in semidarkness. Large numbers of books always depressed her, as did people who liked to read them. That is – all people except Ashley. She closed the door except for a crack and tried to make her heart beat more slowly. She tried to remember just exactly what she had planned last night to say to Ashley, but she couldn’t recall anything. All she could think of was that she loved him. Oh, if only he would walk in on her now and take her in his arms, so she wouldn’t have to say anything. He must love her – “Perhaps if I prayed —” She squeezed her eyes tightly[22] and began saying to herself “Hail Mary, full of grace —”

      “Why, Scarlett!” said Ashley’s voice. He stood in the hall looking at her through the partly opened door, a smile on his face.

      “Who are you hiding from – Charles or the Tarletons?”

      He entered, puzzled but interested. Automatically he closed the door behind him and took her hand.

      “What is it?” he said, almost in a whisper.

      At the touch of his hand, she began to tremble. It was going to happen now, just as she had dreamed it.

      “What is it?” he repeated. “A secret to tell me?”

      Suddenly she found her tongue and just as suddenly all the years of Ellen’s teachings fell away, and the Irish blood of Gerald spoke from his daughter’s lips.

      “Yes – a secret. I love you.”

      For an instance there was a silence. And then her eyes sought his.

      There was a look of surprise in them and something more – what was it? Then something like a well-trained mask came down over his face and he smiled gallantly.

      “Isn’t it

20

попался на крючок

21

Борджиа, испано-итальянский дворянский род. Это имя стало синонимом распущенности и вероломства.

22

Она крепко зажмурила глаза