Rhett tightened the sash of his silk robe and pushed the decanter of whisky and a glass over to the ghost of Gerald O'Hara. The ghost! Of Gerald O'Hara! He smirked and shook his head at his own folly. There was no ghost. He was obviously dreaming. Gerald O'Hara had been dead for years, and Rhett didn't believe in ghosts. And besides, if, if Gerald was going to haunt anybody, why would it be Rhett? When Rhett had treated Scarlett so harshly…
"Harsh tisn't the word," said Gerald, as though he could read Rhett's thoughts. "When I think of the way you've treated me fine Katie Scarlett, me pearl of a girl…"
"So you aren't going to murder me in cold blood," Rhett drawled, sitting back in his chair.
"I would if I could!" Gerald drained his whisky glass and slammed it on the table with surprising force, given the fact that he was a figment of Rhett's imagination. "But I can't," he finished, as ruffled as a bantam rooster. He put out his hand and made as though he were going to sock Rhett in the jaw—Rhett recoiled—even in death, he feared, the little Irishman might have some fight left in him. But Gerald's fist passed through Rhett's face instead of connecting with it. There was a feeling of a gentle breeze, and a great chill. It was shocking, but Rhett soon recovered his wits. By God, it was the damnedest dream! But at least there was nothing to fear from it.
"So I suppose I am safe," Rhett agreed, feeling slightly smug.
Gerald shrugged, and poured himself more whisky. "In a manner of speaking," he conceded.
"In a manner of speaking? What does that mean?"
"It means, me boy," Gerald leaned over the table menacingly. "That you're in grand danger of forgetting your soul."
"The Irish," Rhett said, sarcastically, waving a hand in dismissal. "Such a romantic breed. Speak plainly, man, and say what you…" Rhett broke off and snapped his fingers. "My God, I don't know why I thought of it before! It's a trick! Scarlett arranged this somehow. It's just like in the book I read, that book by Mr. Dickens! And Scarlett must have read it—hard to believe as that is. But she must have—she has. She's hired you—and you broke into my room—and that thing you did with your hand was an illusion…or something…"
Gerald looked offended. "I wouldn't lie to ye, lad."
Rhett said, coldly, "You'd better get out of my room at once or I'll call the police. Or shoot you, myself." He was not armed, but this—imposter—could not know that.
But Gerald's face showed no fear. He leaned forward and studied Rhett for a long time. "Blessed Mary, he means it!" he said finally, quietly. Sadly. "I can see into his heart—black as night it is—the man would murder his own kin by marriage, if he could. Shoot away," he said, leaning back in his chair. "As I'm already dead, I've no fear of ye."
"Now see here, whoever you are," Rhett said, and reached for him. But again his hand passed through Gerald's body, and there was that deep, overwhelming sense of cold cold. "Whoever you are—who—who are you?" he asked, feeling really frightened for the first time.
"I'm Gerald O'Hara," said Gerald O'Hara, "And I've come to take you back."
Back where? Rhett wanted to say, but the ghost had reached for him and this time his hand connected with Rhett's flesh. There was a searing cold and a flash of light and all at once, the ground under his feet disappeared and the walls around him dissolved into blackness.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
They were outside. It was night. It was cool, but not cold as it had been earlier in the evening. The smells of the city had vanished and Rhett smelled only the clean wet earth, the scent of spruce on the wind. He and Gerald—for he was finally beginning to believe that, at least in some incarnation, this was Gerald O'Hara—seemed to be standing in a little copse of trees. The frosty ground was white except where their footprints showed dark against the stubbled grass.
"Where are we?" Rhett wondered.
Gerald seemed not to hear him. He knelt down and he touched the earth; he picked up a handful of the clay and held it to his face.
"Home," he said softly. "I've missed it—I've seen it so in my dreams. I told Katie Scarlett—the earth—our bit of earth. I told her to keep care of it, but I didn't mean at the cost of…"
"At the cost of what?" Rhett wondered.
"Of everything," Gerald said, shortly, as though he'd just remembered Rhett was there. "Come," he commanded. "We've a ways to go."
They walked. Rhett tilted his head to look up and the stars swam dizzily overhead. They were like diamonds scattered across a swath of velvet. Had he really noticed them before? He laughed softly to himself. "This really is the craziest dream I've ever had." And the most realistic--the cold was pricking at his arms under the thin cloth of his smoking jacket and his breath was coming short in his chest.
"Are we almost there?" he wondered, to Gerald, who held up a hand, motioning for him to be quiet. Rhett narrowed his eyes--and then opened them in shock! For there, before him, was a great white house, that had not been there just a moment before.
Gerald stepped up to a window, lit up softly from within and beckoned Rhett to join him. Rhett stepped forward, and the two men stood at the window together, watching as a scene beyond the panes materialized.
At first there were only the hazy outlines of things, but it grew sharper and clearer by the second, so that Rhett soon saw quite plainly a cozy room, with a fire burning in the hearth, and gay fir boughs strewn across the mantelpiece. A dark-haired woman had her back to him and was arranging a bowl of flowers on a low table by the door. Two little girls were stringing popped corn to make a garland, and in the middle of the room was…was…
In the middle of the room was Bonnie. A dear little child with black curls and porcelain skin. "Pa!" she commanded, and Rhett moved forward, involuntarily, as if he would go to her. But it was odd—Bonnie had never called him Pa. He had been Daddy, Daddy dearest, always.
"Coming, Katie Scarlett!" cried Gerald's own voice, though Gerald was standing next to Rhett. He watched as a much younger Gerald walked into the room. He went over to the girl and picked her up, held her heavenward. Now that Rhett could see her face, he knew it was not Bonnie. The girl's eyes were pea green, and her chin was pointed, like a little cat's. But it was uncanny. It was Scarlett, Scarlett to the life. It was Scarlett as a child, Scarlett as he had never seen her before.
"Shall I show you your present?" asked Gerald-of-then, as Gerald-of-now looked on. "And then, when you have seen him, shall we take him on a ride to Twelve Oaks and show him off to Master Ashley Wilkes?"
"Oh, Pa, a pony!" lisped little Scarlett. "I want him! I want him now! And I don't want Ashley to see him. I don't like smelly old boys."
Rhett laughed, despite himself. If only that feeling had persisted.
"I do want to show silly India, though! She's horrid—she'll be jealous as can be!"
Rhett laughed again, and Gerald too, this time. Some things never did change.
Ellen O'Hara moved away from the table to speak softly but severely to her husband. "It is Christmas eve," she reminded him. "It is hardly proper to go visiting tonight. Scarlett can see her friends in the morning."
"Oh, Pa! Must we do as mother says?"
"You can do whatever your heart desires," Gerald told his little black-haired daughter.
"But Mr. O'Hara…"
"Ellen, if the child wants to go visiting, visiting she shall go. Let me hear no more of it."
Ellen turned away, defeated, and the child Scarlett rejoiced.
Rhett gaped as a large black woman entered the room with drinks on a tray. It was Mammy, Mammy! He guffawed, and was surprised when she looked up toward the window. "Did you hear dat noise?" she inquired of a young Pork. "Go see what it is."
Pork came out and Rhett shrank back against the hedge, but Gerald laughed. "Don't worry, me boy! They can't see us."
"But Mammy looked right at us!"
"Some are more perceptive than others," Gerald told him. "Look!" He raised his arm and pointed.
Little Scarlett and Gerald were coming out of the house, onto the verandah, but a small, furious toddler had followed. "Oh, please, let me come, too!" Suellen cried.
Scarlett stuck out her tongue. "You can't, silly baby."
Suellen burst into tears. "You can't wear my new rabbit hat, Scarlett!" She ran and tried to snatch it back but Scarlett was too quick for her. She held it high, out of her sister's reach. "But it's mine!" Suellen cried. "Mine! It was a present for me from Aunt Eulalie!"
"It's mine, now," Scarlett said haughtily.
Gerald's voice was a bass of disapproval. "Hey now, little missies, what is the meaning of this doolaly?"
"Scarlett stole my hat, Pa, and won't give it back."
Gerald whirled to look at Suellen, eyes blazing. In a flash he reached out and paddled her on the backside. The Gerald beside Rhett winced. "Nobody likes a tale-teller, Suellen O'Hara. And you must share with your sister. The hat looks splendid on her. Mother will buy you a new hat."
Behind him Scarlett preened and ran to take her father's hand. The two of them ambled off toward the stables, chattering to one another. Rhett noticed that the child Scarlett did not give her father much chance to get a word in edgewise.
Suellen remained where she was, sobbing, and Rhett heard Mammy's voice through the window, thick with disapproval. "He gwine spoil dat chile, Miss Ellen."
Ellen sounded tired. "He has already, Mammy," she said, sinking down into a chair by the fire.
From the verandah still came the sounds of Suellen's sobs. Gerald turned away from the window and Rhett understood the scene had ended.
"Twelve Oaks," said Gerald, motioning for Rhett to follow. But he did not seem to be intending for the same ghostly sort of transport. The two men walked down the bridal path and when the house Wilkes's house burst into view Rhett was reminded of the day, so long ago, that he had first seen Scarlett here. He never could have guessed, then, how it all would turn out. If he could only go back to that day, back—he would do so much differently!
Twelve Oaks seemed much the same as it had been the day of the barbecue. The trees were a little smaller, the brick more brightly whitewashed. This time, they climbed the steps and entered the house through the door, which had been left ajar. Once again Rhett was struck by the strange feeling of being in a scene, but not part of it. It was like being at the theatre, only the players did not know they were being watched.
A pretty, pale woman sat at the piano. Mrs. Wilkes—Rhett drew in his breath to see her. She was the picture of her niece, Melanie Hamilton. Small and timid, like a sparrow. But there was a self-confidence to her that Melanie had lacked.
"A good woman," Gerald said wistfully. "She doesn't have much longer but she doesn't know it yet. She'll sicken over the new year—by February she'll be gone. It does the heart good to see her again. She was a dear friend."
Rhett watched as Mrs. Wilkes played the opening lines to a Christmas carol. Two girls—one obviously a smaller version of India Wilkes—began to sing.
See amid the winter's snow,
Born for us on earth below,
See the tender Lamb appears,
Promised from eternal years….
Sing it through Jerusalem!
Christ is born in Bethlehem.
"Don't you see her in, er, heaven?" Rhett wondered, curious.
Gerald turned his head away. "It isn't quite like what ye'd expect," he said softly. "We don't all sit about in a great room together, chatting of time gone by. There is a feeling of togetherness, yes—but it isn't more than that. I can't explain it to you. I never was good with me words."
The child Scarlett had been sitting prettily by, arranging her skirts so that they might be best admired. But the song went on and nobody was paying any attention to her. She pulled on Ashley's sleeve and he smiled down at her briefly before turning back to the music. Scarlett's miniature brow darkened. She stomped her foot—she stood up—she gave a bloodcurdling yowl and reached forward to rip a handful of pages from a book close at hand.
"Scarlett!" cried Mrs. Wilkes, jumping up from the piano.
"Oh, Mother, Ashley's book! She's ruined Ashley's new book!"
Gerald's brogue cut across the commotion like a knife. "Sure and she's a naughty one," he bellowed, but his blue eyes were twinkling like twin stars. "Master Ashley doesn't mind, though, does he? I'll get you another book, sir."
Scarlett smiled triumphantly at India and Honey Wilkes.
The scene shimmered around the edges, and suddenly the child Scarlett had grown. A pretty, slender, vibrant girl of about fourteen pulled at the hand of her unseen companion.
"Oh, please, Ashley!" she pouted, and her voice was so—so—Scarlett. Rhett wanted to laugh, from the sheer delight of it. "Come and dance with me! I don't see why you even bothered to throw a Christmas ball if you're not going to dance."
Ashley's gentle laughter was strange to Rhett's ears—when was the last time he had heard Ashley laugh? Not in…years. Perhaps not since the day when he had first met him, before the war.
"Scarlett, you're so pretty that you must dance. Anything else would be an affront to our guests. But I have guests to attend to, dear. My cousin Melanie is tired from her journey and doesn't feel well enough to dance. And it would be terribly rude of me to leave her as a wallflower tonight."
"Melanie Hamilton—fiddle dee dee! Oh, Ashley, dance with me, now! If you don't I shall die!"
"My cousin Charles is fond of dancing, Scarlett. Shall I bring him over and introduce him to you."
Scarlett tossed her head and the green ribbons in her hair danced. "I've met Charlie Hamilton," she said nastily. "I never met a stupider, more awkward boy in my life. I'd rather dance with a—a pig!"
Ashley's brow darkened, but only for a fleeting moment. "Oh, Scarlett, I know you don't mean that."
"But I do! I hate Charles—I wish he and Melanie had never come to Clayton County!"
"Scarlett!" Ashley seemed genuinely shocked. "Both of them love you as well as I do! And even if—you do not like them—it's Christmas. A time of peace and goodwill."
"Goodwill, fiddle-dee-dee!" Scarlett cried. She glanced down and when she looked up her eyes were brimming with tears. "Oh, Ashley, won't you show me goodwill and dance with me?"
Before he could say another word, Scarlett had pulled him by the arm into a throng of dancers. Rhett saw Scarlett's lips curve over Ashley's shoulder. Melanie Hamilton, a pretty brown bird of a girl, followed them with her eyes and sighed. Charles Hamilton was visibly disappointed and wore his heart on his face for all to see. Suddenly, Gerald's Irish brogue rose above the music.
"And isn't my pet the prettiest girl in the room! See how she's taken Miss Hamilton's beau from her—and left a trail of broken hearts in her wake, to be sure."