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- Маргарет Митчелл
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"
There
's
no
help
for
it
,
Will
,
"
he
said
,
rumpling
his
bright
hair
.
"
I
ca
n't
knock
Grandma
Fontaine
down
or
old
man
McRae
either
,
and
I
ca
n't
hold
my
hand
over
Mrs.
Tarleton
's
mouth
.
And
the
mildest
thing
they
'll
say
is
that
Suellen
is
a
murderess
and
a
traitor
and
but
for
her
Mr.
O'Hara
would
still
be
alive
.
Damn
this
custom
of
speaking
over
the
dead
.
It
's
barbarous
.
"
"
Look
,
Ash
,
"
said
Will
slowly
.
"
I
ai
n't
aimin
'
to
have
nobody
say
nothin
'
against
Suellen
,
no
matter
what
they
think
.
You
leave
it
to
me
.
When
you
've
finished
with
the
readin
'
and
the
prayin
'
and
you
say
:
'
If
anyone
would
like
to
say
a
few
words
,
'
you
look
right
at
me
,
so
I
can
speak
first
.
"
But
Scarlett
,
watching
the
pallbearers
'
difficulty
in
getting
the
coffin
through
the
narrow
entrance
into
the
burying
ground
,
had
no
thought
of
trouble
to
come
after
the
funeral
.
She
was
thinking
with
a
leaden
heart
that
in
burying
Gerald
she
was
burying
one
of
the
last
links
that
joined
her
to
the
old
days
of
happiness
and
irresponsibility
.
Finally
the
pallbearers
set
the
coffin
down
near
the
grave
and
stood
clenching
and
unclenching
their
aching
fingers
.
Ashley
,
Melanie
and
Will
filed
into
the
inclosure
and
stood
behind
the
O'Hara
girls
.
All
the
closer
neighbors
who
could
crowd
in
were
behind
them
and
the
others
stood
outside
the
brick
wall
.
Scarlett
,
really
seeing
them
for
the
first
time
,
was
surprised
and
touched
by
the
size
of
the
crowd
.
With
transportation
so
limited
it
was
kind
of
so
many
to
come
.
There
were
fifty
or
sixty
people
there
,
some
of
them
from
so
far
away
she
wondered
how
they
had
heard
in
time
to
come
.
There
were
whole
families
from
Jonesboro
and
Fayetteville
and
Lovejoy
and
with
them
a
few
negro
servants
.
Many
small
farmers
from
far
across
the
river
were
present
and
Crackers
from
the
backwoods
and
a
scattering
of
swamp
folk
.
The
swamp
men
were
lean
bearded
giants
in
homespun
,
coon-skin
caps
on
their
heads
,
their
rifles
easy
in
the
crooks
of
their
arms
,
their
wads
of
tobacco
stilled
in
their
cheeks
.
Their
women
were
with
them
,
their
bare
feet
sunk
in
the
soft
red
earth
,
their
lower
lips
full
of
snuff
.
Their
faces
beneath
their
sun-bonnets
were
sallow
and
malarial-looking
but
shining
clean
and
their
freshly
ironed
calicoes
glistened
with
starch
.
The
near
neighbors
were
there
in
full
force
.
Grandma
Fontaine
,
withered
,
wrinkled
and
yellow
as
an
old
molted
bird
,
was
leaning
on
her
cane
,
and
behind
her
were
Sally
Munroe
Fontaine
and
Young
Miss
Fontaine
.
They
were
trying
vainly
by
whispered
pleas
and
jerks
at
her
skirt
to
make
the
old
lady
sit
down
on
the
brick
wall
.
Grandma
's
husband
,
the
Old
Doctor
,
was
not
there
.
He
had
died
two
months
before
and
much
of
the
bright
malicious
joy
of
life
had
gone
from
her
old
eyes
.
Cathleen
Calvert
Hilton
stood
alone
as
befitted
one
whose
husband
had
helped
bring
about
the
present
tragedy
,
her
faded
sunbonnet
hiding
her
bowed
face
.
Scarlett
saw
with
amazement
that
her
percale
dress
had
grease
spots
on
it
and
her
hands
were
freckled
and
unclean
.
There
were
even
black
crescents
under
her
fingernails
.
There
was
nothing
of
quality
folks
about
Cathleen
now
.
She
looked
Cracker
,
even
worse
.
She
looked
poor
white
,
shiftless
,
slovenly
,
trifling
.
"
She
'll
be
dipping
snuff
soon
,
if
she
is
n't
doing
it
already
,
"
thought
Scarlett
in
horror
.
"
Good
Lord
!
What
a
comedown
!
"
She
shuddered
,
turning
her
eyes
from
Cathleen
as
she
realized
how
narrow
was
the
chasm
between
quality
folk
and
poor
whites
.
"
There
but
for
a
lot
of
gumption
am
I
,
"
she
thought
,
and
pride
surged
through
her
as
she
realized
that
she
and
Cathleen
had
started
with
the
same
equipment
after
the
surrender
--
empty
hands
and
what
they
had
in
their
heads
.
