gone with the wind飘(英)_3

gone with the wind (飘/乱世佳人) 3

As they jolted slowly down the darkening road, her head on his
shoulder, her bonnet askew, she had forgotten the Gerald of the
last two years, the vague old gentleman who stared at doors waiting
for a woman who would never enter. She was remembering the vital,
virile old man with his mane of crisp white hair, his bellowing
cheerfulness, his stamping boots, his clumsy jokes, his generosity.
She remembered how, as a child, he had seemed the most wonderful
man in the world, this blustering father who carried her before him
on his saddle when he jumped fences, turned her up and paddled her
when she was naughty, and then cried when she cried and gave her
quarters to get her to hush. She remembered him coming home from
Charleston and Atlanta laden with gifts that were never appropriate,
remembered too, with a faint smile through tears, how he came home
in the wee hours from Court Day at Jonesboro, drunk as seven earls,
jumping fences, his rollicking voice raised in "The Wearin' o' the
Green." And how abashed he was, facing Ellen on the morning after.
Well, he was with Ellen now.

"Why didn't you write me that he was ill? I'd have come so fast--"

"He warn't ill, not a minute. Here, honey, take my handkerchief
and I'll tell you all about it."

She blew her nose on his bandanna, for she had come from Atlanta
without even a handkerchief, and settled back into the crook of
Will's arm. How nice Will was. Nothing ever upset him.

"Well, it was this way, Scarlett. You been sendin' us money right
along and Ashley and me, well, we've paid taxes and bought the mule
and seeds and what-all and a few hogs and chickens. Miss Melly's
done mighty well with the hens, yes sir, she has. She's a fine
woman, Miss Melly is. Well, anyway, after we bought things for
Tara, there warn't so much left over for folderols, but none of us
warn't complainin'. Except Suellen.

"Miss Melanie and Miss Carreen stay at home and wear their old
clothes like they're proud of them but you know Suellen, Scarlett.
She hasn't never got used to doin' without. It used to stick in
her craw that she had to wear old dresses every time I took her
into Jonesboro or over to Fayetteville. 'Specially as some of
those Carpetbaggers' ladi--women was always flouncin' around in
fancy trimmin's. The wives of those damn Yankees that run the
Freedmen's Bureau, do they dress up! Well, it's kind of been a
point of honor with the ladies of the County to wear their worst-
lookin' dresses to town, just to show how they didn't care and was
proud to wear them. But not Suellen. And she wanted a horse and
carriage too. She pointed out that you had one."

"It's not a carriage, it's an old buggy," said Scarlett indignantly.

"Well, no matter what. I might as well tell you Suellen never has
got over your marryin' Frank Kennedy and I don't know as I blame
her. You know that was a kind of scurvy trick to play on a
sister."

Scarlett rose from his shoulder, furious as a rattler ready to
strike.

"Scurvy trick, hey? I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your
head, Will Benteen! Could I help it if he preferred me to her?"

"You're a smart girl, Scarlett, and I figger, yes, you could have
helped him preferrin' you. Girls always can. But I guess you kind
of coaxed him. You're a mighty takin' person when you want to be,
but all the same, he was Suellen's beau. Why, she'd had a letter
from him a week before you went to Atlanta and he was sweet as
sugar about her and talked about how they'd get married when he got
a little more money ahead. I know because she showed me the
letter."

Scarlett was silent because she knew he was telling the truth and
she could think of nothing to say. She had never expected Will, of
all people, to sit in judgment on her. Moreover the lie she had
told Frank had never weighed heavily upon her conscience. If a
girl couldn't keep a beau, she deserved to lose him.

"Now, Will, don't be mean," she said. "If Suellen had married him,
do you think she'd ever have spent a penny on Tara or any of us?"

"I said you could be right takin' when you wanted to," said Will,
turning to her with a quiet grin. "No, I don't think we'd ever
seen a penny of old Frank's money. But still there's no gettin'
'round it, it was a scurvy trick and if you want to justify the end
by the means, it's none of my business and who am I to complain?
But just the same Suellen has been like a hornet ever since. I
don't think she cared much about old Frank but it kind of teched
her vanity and she's been sayin' as how you had good clothes and a
carriage and lived in Atlanta while she was buried here at Tara.
She does love to go callin' and to parties, you know, and wear
pretty clothes. I ain't blamin' her. Women are like that.

"Well, about a month ago I took her into Jonesboro and left her to
go callin' while I tended to business and when I took her home, she
was still as a mouse but I could see she was so excited she was
ready to bust. I thought she'd found out somebody was goin' to
have a--that she'd heard some gossip that was interestin', and I
didn't pay her much mind. She went around home for about a week
all swelled up and excited and didn't have much to say. She went
over to see Miss Cathleen Calvert--Scarlett, you'd cry your eyes
out at Miss Cathleen. Pore girl, she'd better be dead than married
to that pusillanimous Yankee Hilton. You knew he'd mortgaged the
place and lost it and they're goin' to have to leave?"

"No, I didn't know and I don't want to know. I want to know about
Pa."

"Well, I'm gettin' to that," said Will patiently. "When she come
back from over there she said we'd all misjudged Hilton. She
called him Mr. Hilton and she said he was a smart man, but we just
laughed at her. Then she took to takin' your pa out to walk in the
afternoons and lots of times when I was comin' home from the field
I'd see her sittin' with him on the wall 'round the buryin' ground,
talkin' at him hard and wavin' her hands. And the old gentleman
would just look at her sort of puzzled-like and shake his head.
You know how he's been, Scarlett. He just got kind of vaguer and
vaguer, like he didn't hardly know where he was or who we were.
One time, I seen her point to your ma's grave and the old gentleman
begun to cry. And when she come in the house all happy and excited
lookin', I gave her a talkin' to, right sharp, too, and I said:
'Miss Suellen, why in hell are you devilin' your poor pa and
bringin' up your ma to him? Most of the time he don't realize
she's dead and here you are rubbin' it in.' And she just kind of
tossed her head and laughed and said: 'Mind your business. Some
day you'll be glad of what I'm doin'.' Miss Melanie told me last
night that Suellen had told her about her schemes but Miss Melly
said she didn't have no notion Suellen was serious. She said she
didn't tell none of us because she was so upset at the very idea."

"What idea? Are you ever going to get to the point? We're halfway
home now. I want to know about Pa."

"I'm trying to tell you," said Will, "and we're so near home, I
guess I'd better stop right here till I've finished."

He drew rein and the horse stopped and snorted. They had halted by
the wild overgrown mock-orange hedge that marked the Macintosh
property. Glancing under the dark trees Scarlett could just
discern the tall ghostly chimneys still rearing above the silent
ruin. She wished that Will had chosen any other place to stop.

"Well, the long and the short of her idea was to make the Yankees
pay for the cotton they burned and the stock they drove off and the
fences and the barns they tore down."

"The Yankees?"

"Haven't you heard about it? The Yankee government's been payin'
claims on all destroyed property of Union sympathizers in the
South."

"Of course I've heard about that," said Scarlett. "But what's that
got to do with us?"

"A heap, in Suellen's opinion. That day I took her to Jonesboro,
she run into Mrs. MacIntosh and when they were gossipin' along,
Suellen couldn't help noticin' what fine-lookin' clothes Mrs.
Macintosh had on and she couldn't help askin' about them. Then
Mrs. MacIntosh gave herself a lot of airs and said as how her
husband had put in a claim with the Federal government for
destroyin' the property of a loyal Union sympathizer who had never
given aid and comfort to the Confederacy in any shape or form."

"They never gave aid and comfort to anybody," snapped Scarlett.
"Scotch-Irish!"

"Well, maybe that's true. I don't know them. Anyway, the
government gave them, well--I forget how many thousand dollars. A
right smart sum it was, though. That started Suellen. She thought
about it all week and didn't say nothin' to us because she knew
we'd just laugh. But she just had to talk to somebody so she went
over to Miss Cathleen's and that damned white trash, Hilton, gave
her a passel of new ideas. He pointed out that your pa warn't even
born in this country, that he hadn't fought in the war and hadn't
had no sons to fight, and hadn't never held no office under the
Confederacy. He said they could strain a point about Mr. O'Hara
bein' a loyal Union sympathizer. He filled her up with such truck
and she come home and begun workin' on Mr. O'Hara. Scarlett, I bet
my life your pa didn't even know half the time what she was talkin'
about. That was what she was countin' on, that he would take the
Iron Clad oath and not even know it."

"Pa take the Iron Clad oath!" cried Scarlett.

"Well, he'd gotten right feeble in his mind these last months and I
guess she was countin' on that. Mind you, none of us suspicioned
nothin' about it. We knew she was cookin' up somethin', but we
didn't know she was usin' your dead ma to reproach him for his
daughters bein' in rags when he could get a hundred and fifty
thousand dollars out of the Yankees."

"One hundred and fifty thousand dollars," murmured Scarlett, her
horror at the oath fading.

What a lot of money that was! And to be had for the mere signing
of an oath of allegiance to the United States government, an oath
stating that the signer had always supported the government and
never given aid and comfort to its enemies. One hundred and fifty
thousand dollars! That much money for that small a lie! Well, she
couldn't blame Suellen. Good heavens! Was that what Alex meant by
wanting to rawhide her? What the County meant by intending to cut
her? Fools, every one of them. What couldn't she do with that
much money! What couldn't any of the folks in the County do with
it! And what did so small a lie matter? After all, anything you
could get out of the Yankees was fair money, no matter how you got
it.

"Yesterday, about noon when Ashley and me were splittin' rails,
Suellen got this wagon and got your pa in it and off they went to
town without a word to anybody. Miss Melly had a notion what it
was all about but she was prayin' somethin' would change Suellen,
so she didn't say nothin' to the rest of us. She just didn't see
how Suellen could do such a thing.

"Today I heard all about what happened. That pusillanimous fellow,
Hilton, had some influence with the other Scallawags and
Republicans in town and Suellen had agreed to give them some of the
money--I don't know how much--if they'd kind of wink their eye
about Mr. O'Hara bein' a loyal Union man and play on how he was an
Irishman and didn't fight in the army and so on, and sign
recommendations. All your pa had to do was take the oath and sign
the paper and off it would go to Washington.

"They rattled off the oath real fast and he didn't say nothin' and
it went right well till she got him up to the signin' of it. And
then the old gentleman kind of come to himself for a minute and
shook his head. I don't think he knew what it was all about but he
didn't like it and Suellen always did rub him the wrong way. Well,
that just about gave her the nervous fits after all the trouble
she'd gone to. She took him out of the office and rode him up and
down the road and talked to him about your ma cryin' out of her
grave at him for lettin' her children suffer when he could provide
for them. They tell me your pa sat there in the wagon and cried
like a baby, like he always does when he hears her name. Everybody
in town saw them and Alex Fontaine went over to see what was the
matter, but Suellen gave him the rough side of her tongue and told
him to mind his own business, so he went off mad.

"I don't know where she got the notion but some time in the
afternoon she got a bottle of brandy and took Mr. O'Hara back to
the office and begun pourin' it for him. Scarlett, we haven't had
no spirits 'round Tara for a year, just a little blackberry wine
and scuppernong wine Dilcey makes, and Mr. O'Hara warn't used to
it. He got real drunk, and after Suellen had argued and nagged a
couple of hours he gave in and said Yes, he'd sign anything she
wanted. They got the oath out again and just as he was about to
put pen to paper, Suellen made her mistake. She said: 'Well, now.
I guess the Slatterys and the MacIntoshes won't be givin'
themselves airs over us!' You see, Scarlett, the Slatterys had put
in a claim for a big amount for that little shack of theirs that
the Yankees burned and Emmie's husband had got it through
Washington for them.

"They tell me that when Suellen said those names, your pa kind of
straightened up and squared his shoulders and looked at her, sharp-
like. He warn't vague no more and he said: 'Have the Slatterys
and the MacIntoshes signed somethin' like this?' and Suellen got
nervous and said Yes and No and stuttered and he shouted right
loud: 'Tell me, did that God-damned Orangeman and that God-damned
poor white sign somethin' like this?' And that feller Hilton spoke
up smooth-like and said: 'Yes sir, they did and they got a pile of
money like you'll get.'

"And then the old gentleman let out a roar like a bull. Alex
Fontaine said he heard him from down the street at the saloon. And
he said with a brogue you could cut with a butterknife: 'And were
ye afther thinkin' an O'Hara of Tara would be follyin' the dirthy
thracks of a Goddamned Orangeman and a God-damned poor white?' And
he tore the paper in two and threw it in Suellen's face and he
bellowed: 'Ye're no daughter of mine!' and he was out of the
office before you could say Jack Robinson.

"Alex said he saw him come out on the street, chargin' like a bull.
He said the old gentleman looked like his old self for the first
time since your ma died. Said he was reelin' drunk and cussin' at
the top of his lungs. Alex said he never heard such fine cussin'.
Alex's horse was standin' there and your pa climbed on it without a
by-your-leave and off he went in a cloud of dust so thick it choked
you, cussin' every breath he drew.

"Well, about sundown Ashley and me were sittin' on the front step,
lookin' down the road and mighty worried. Miss Melly was upstairs
cryin' on her bed and wouldn't tell us nothin'. Terrectly, we
heard a poundin' down the road and somebody yellin' like they was
fox huntin' and Ashley said: 'That's queer! That sounds like Mr.
O'Hara when he used to ride over to see us before the war."

"And then we seen him way down at the end of the pasture. He must
have jumped the fence right over there. And he come ridin' hell-
for-leather up the hill, singin' at the top of his voice like he
didn't have a care in the world. I didn't know your pa had such a
voice. He was singin' 'Peg in a Low-backed Car' and beatin' the
horse with his hat and the horse was goin' like mad. He didn't
draw rein when he come near the top and we seen he was goin' to
jump the pasture fence and we hopped up, scared to death, and then
he yelled: 'Look, Ellen! Watch me take this one!' But the horse
stopped right on his haunches at the fence and wouldn't take the
jump and your pa went right over his head. He didn't suffer none.
He was dead time we got to him. I guess it broke his neck."

Will waited a minute for her to speak and when she did not he
picked up the reins. "Giddap, Sherman," he said, and the horse
started on toward home.



CHAPTER XL


Scarlett slept little that night. When the dawn had come and the
sun was creeping over the black pines on the hills to the east, she
rose from her tumbled bed and, seating herself on a stool by the
window, laid her tired head on her arm and looked out over the barn
yard and orchard of Tara toward the cotton fields. Everything was
fresh and dewy and silent and green and the sight of the cotton
fields brought a measure of balm and comfort to her sore heart.
Tara, at sunrise, looked loved, well tended and at peace, for all
that its master lay dead. The squatty log chicken house was clay
daubed against rats, weasels and clean with whitewash, and so was
the log stable. The garden with its rows of corn, bright-yellow
squash, butter beans and turnips was well weeded and neatly fenced
with split-oak rails. The orchard was cleared of underbrush and
only daisies grew beneath the long rows of trees. The sun picked
out with faint glistening the apples and the furred pink peaches
half hidden in the green leaves. Beyond lay the curving rows of
cotton, still and green under the gold of the new sky. The ducks
and chickens were waddling and strutting off toward the fields, for
under the bushes in the soft plowed earth were found the choicest
worms and slugs.

Scarlett's heart swelled with affection and gratitude to Will who
had done all of this. Even her loyalty to Ashley could not make
her believe he had been responsible for much of this well-being,
for Tara's bloom was not the work of a planter-aristocrat, but of
the plodding, tireless "small farmer" who loved his land. It was
a "two-horse" farm, not the lordly plantation of other days with
pastures full of mules and fine horses and cotton and corn
stretching as far as eye could see. But what there was of it was
good and the acres that were lying fallow could be reclaimed when
times grew better, and they would be the more fertile for their
rest.

Will had done more than merely farm a few acres. He had kept
sternly at bay those two enemies of Georgia planters, the seedling
pine and the blackberry brambles. They had not stealthily taken
garden and pasture and cotton field and lawn and reared themselves
insolently by the porches of Tara, as they were doing on numberless
plantations throughout the state.

Scarlett's heart failed a beat when she thought how close Tara had
come to going back to wilderness. Between herself and Will, they
had done a good job. They had held off the Yankees, the
Carpetbaggers and the encroachments of Nature. And, best of all,
Will had told her that after the cotton came in in the fall, she
need send no more money--unless some other Carpetbagger coveted
Tara and skyrocketed the taxes. Scarlett knew Will would have a
hard pull without her help but she admired and respected his
independence. As long as he was in the position of hired help he
would take her money, but now that he was to become her brother-in-
law and the man of the house, he intended to stand on his own
efforts. Yes, Will was something the Lord had provided.



Pork had dug the grave the night before, close by Ellen's grave,
and he stood, spade in hand, behind the moist red clay he was soon
to shovel back in place. Scarlett stood behind him in the patchy
shade of a gnarled low-limbed cedar, the hot sun of the June
morning dappling her, and tried to keep her eyes away from the red
trench in front of her. Jim Tarleton, little Hugh Munroe, Alex
Fontaine and old man McRae's youngest grandson came slowly and
awkwardly down the path from the house bearing Gerald's coffin on
two lengths of split oak. Behind them, at a respectful distance,
followed a large straggling crowd of neighbors and friends,
shabbily dressed, silent. As they came down the sunny path through
the garden, Pork bowed his head upon the top of the spade handle
and cried; and Scarlett saw with incurious surprise that the kinks
on his head, so jettily black when she went to Atlanta a few months
before, were now grizzled.

She thanked God tiredly that she had cried all her tears the night
before, so now she could stand erect and dry eyed. The sound of
Suellen's tears, just back of her shoulder, irritated her
unbearably and she had to clench her fists to keep from turning and
slapping the swollen face. Sue had been the cause of her father's
death, whether she intended it or not, and she should have the
decency to control herself in front of the hostile neighbors. Not
a single person had spoken to her that morning or given her one
look of sympathy. They had kissed Scarlett quietly, shaken her
hand, murmured kind words to Carreen and even to Pork but had
looked through Suellen as if she were not there.

To them she had done worse than murder her father. She had tried
to betray him into disloyalty to the South. And to that grim and
close-knit community it was as if she had tried to betray the honor
of them all. She had broken the solid front the County presented
to the world. By her attempt to get money from the Yankee
government she had aligned herself with Carpetbaggers and
Scallawags, more hated enemies than the Yankee soldiers had ever
been. She, a member of an old and staunchly Confederate family, a
planter's family, had gone over to the enemy and by so doing had
brought shame on every family in the County.

The mourners were seething with indignation and downcast with
sorrow, especially three of them--old man McRae, who had been
Gerald's crony since he came to the up-country from Savannah so
many years before, Grandma Fontaine who loved him because he was
Ellen's husband, and Mrs. Tarleton who had been closer to him than
to any of her neighbors because, as she often said, he was the only
man in the County who knew a stallion from a gelding.

The sight of the stormy faces of these three in the dim parlor
where Gerald lay before the funeral had caused Ashley and Will some
uneasiness and they had retired to Ellen's office for a consultation.

"Some of them are goin' to say somethin' about Suellen," said Will
abruptly, biting his straw in half. "They think they got just
cause to say somethin'. Maybe they have. It ain't for me to say.
But, Ashley, whether they're right or not, we'll have to resent it,
bein' the men of the family, and then there'll be trouble. Can't
nobody do nothin' with old man McRae because he's deaf as a post
and can't hear folks tryin' to shut him up. And you know there
ain't nobody in God's world ever stopped Grandma Fontaine from
speakin' her mind. And as for Mrs. Tarleton--did you see her roll
them russet eyes of hers every time she looked at Sue? She's got
her ears laid back and can't hardly wait. If they say somethin',
we got to take it up and we got enough trouble at Tara now without
bein' at outs with our neighbors."

Ashley sighed worriedly. He knew the tempers of his neighbors
better than Will did and he remembered that fully half of the
quarrels and some of the shootings of the days before the war had
risen from the County custom of saying a few words over the coffins
of departed neighbors. Generally the words were eulogistic in the
extreme but occasionally they were not. Sometimes, words meant in
the utmost respect were misconstrued by overstrung relatives of the
dead and scarcely were the last shovels of earth mounded above the
coffin before trouble began.

In the absence of a priest Ashley was to conduct the services with
the aid of Carreen's Book of Devotions, the assistance of the
Methodist and Baptist preachers of Jonesboro and Fayetteville
having been tactfully refused. Carreen, more devoutly Catholic
than her sisters, had been very upset that Scarlett had neglected
to bring a priest from Atlanta with her and had only been a little
eased by the reminder that when the priest came down to marry Will
and Suellen, he could read the services over Gerald. It was she
who objected to the neighboring Protestant preachers and gave the
matter into Ashley's hands, marking passages in her book for him to
read. Ashley, leaning against the old secretary, knew that the
responsibility for preventing trouble lay with him and, knowing the
hair-trigger tempers of the County, was at a loss as to how to
proceed.

"There's no help for it, Will," he said, rumpling his bright hair.
"I can't knock Grandma Fontaine down or old man McRae either, and I
can'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 ain'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 isn'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.

"I haven't done so bad," she thought, lifting her chin and smiling.

But she stopped in mid-smile as she saw the scandalized eyes of
Mrs. Tarleton upon her. Her eyes were red-rimmed from tears and,
after giving Scarlett a reproving look, she turned her gaze back to
Suellen, a fierce angry gaze that boded ill for her. Behind her
and her husband were the four Tarleton girls, their red locks
indecorous notes in the solemn occasion, their russet eyes still
looking like the eyes of vital young animals, spirited and
dangerous.

Feet were stilled, hats were removed, hands folded and skirts
rustled into quietness as Ashley stepped forward with Carreen's
worn Book of Devotions in his hand. He stood for a moment looking
down, the sun glittering on his golden head. A deep silence fell
on the crowd, so deep that the harsh whisper of the wind in the
magnolia leaves came clear to their ears and the far-off
repetitious note of a mockingbird sounded unendurably loud and sad.
Ashley began to read the prayers and all heads bowed as his
resonant, beautifully modulated voice rolled out the brief and
dignified words.

"Oh!" thought Scarlett, her throat constricting. "How beautiful
his voice is! If anyone has to do this for Pa, I'm glad it's
Ashley. I'd rather have him than a priest. I'd rather have Pa
buried by one of his own folks than a stranger."

When Ashley came to the part of the prayers concerning the souls in
Purgatory, which Carreen had marked for him to read, he abruptly
closed the book. Only Carreen noticed the omission and looked up
puzzled, as he began the Lord's Prayer. Ashley knew that half the
people present had never heard of Purgatory and those who had would
take it as a personal affront, if he insinuated, even in prayer,
that so fine a man as Mr. O'Hara had not gone straight to Heaven.
So, in deference to public opinion, he skipped all mention of
Purgatory. The gathering joined heartily in the Lord's Prayer but
their voices trailed off into embarrassed silence when he began the
Hail Mary. They had never heard that prayer and they looked
furtively at each other as the O'Hara girls, Melanie and the Tara
servants gave the response: "Pray for us, now and at the hour of
our death. Amen."

Then Ashley raised his head and stood for a moment, uncertain. The
eyes of the neighbors were expectantly upon him as they settled
themselves in easier positions for a long harangue. They were
waiting for him to go on with the service, for it did not occur to
any of them that he was at the end of the Catholic prayers. County
funerals were always long. The Baptist and Methodist ministers who
performed them had no set prayers but extemporized as the
circumstances demanded and seldom stopped before all mourners were
in tears and the bereaved feminine relatives screaming with grief.
The neighbors would have been shocked, aggrieved and indignant, had
these brief prayers been all the service over the body of their
loved friend, and no one knew this better than Ashley. The matter
would be discussed at dinner tables for weeks and the opinion of
the County would be that the O'Hara girls had not shown proper
respect for their father.

So he threw a quick apologetic glance at Carreen and, bowing his
head again, began reciting from memory the Episcopal burial service
which he had often read over slaves buried at Twelve Oaks.

"I am the Resurrection and the Life . . . and whosoever . . .
believeth in Me shall never die."

It did not come back to him readily and he spoke slowly,
occasionally falling silent for a space as he waited for phrases to
rise from his memory. But this measured delivery made his words
more impressive, and mourners who had been dry-eyed before began
now to reach for handkerchiefs. Sturdy Baptists and Methodists
all, they thought it the Catholic ceremony and immediately
rearranged their first opinion that the Catholic services were cold
and Popish. Scarlett and Suellen were equally ignorant and thought
the words comforting and beautiful. Only Melanie and Carreen
realized that a devoutly Catholic Irishman was being laid to rest
by the Church of England's service. And Carreen was too stunned by
grief and her hurt at Ashley's treachery to interfere.

When he had finished, Ashley opened wide his sad gray eyes and
looked about the crowd. After a pause, his eyes caught those of
Will and he said: "Is there anyone present who would like to say a
word?"

Mrs. Tarleton twitched nervously but before she could act, Will
stumped forward and standing at the head of the coffin began to
speak.

"Friends," he began in his flat voice, "maybe you think I'm gettin'
above myself, speakin' first--me who never knew Mr. O'Hara till
'bout a year ago when you all have known him twenty years or more.
But this here is my excuse. If he'd lived a month or so longer,
I'd have had the right to call him Pa."

A startled ripple went over the crowd. They were too well bred to
whisper but they shifted on their feet and stared at Carreen's
bowed head. Everyone knew his dumb devotion to her. Seeing the
direction in which all eyes were cast, Will went on as if he had
taken no note.

"So bein' as how I'm to marry Miss Suellen as soon as the priest
comes down from Atlanta, I thought maybe that gives me the right to
speak first."

The last part of his speech was lost in a faint sibilant buzz that
went through the gathering, an angry beelike buzz. There were
indignation and disappointment in the sound. Everyone liked Will,
everyone respected him for what he had done for Tara. Everyone
knew his affections lay with Carreen, so the news that he was to
marry the neighborhood pariah instead sat ill upon them. Good old
Will marrying that nasty, sneaking little Suellen O'Hara!

For a moment the air was tense. Mrs. Tarleton's eyes began to snap
and her lips to shape soundless words. In the silence, old man
McRae's high voice could be heard imploring his grandson to tell
him what had been said. Will faced them all, still mild of face,
but there was something in his pale blue eyes which dared them to
say one word about his future wife. For a moment the balance hung
between the honest affection everyone had for Will and their
contempt for Suellen. And Will won. He continued as if his pause
had been a natural one.

"I never knew Mr. O'Hara in his prime like you all done. All I
knew personally was a fine old gentleman who was a mite addled.
But I've heard tell from you all 'bout what he used to be like.
And I want to say this. He was a fightin' Irishman and a Southern
gentleman and as loyal a Confederate as ever lived. You can't get
no better combination than that. And we ain't likely to see many
more like him, because the times that bred men like him are as dead
as he is. He was born in a furrin country but the man we're
buryin' here today was more of a Georgian than any of us mournin'
him. He lived our life, he loved our land and, when you come right
down to it, he died for our Cause, same as the soldiers did. He
was one of us and he had our good points and our bad points and he
had our strength and he had our failin's. He had our good points
in that couldn't nothin' stop him when his mind was made up and he
warn't scared of nothin' that walked in shoe leather. There warn't
nothin' that come to him FROM THE OUTSIDE that could lick him.

"He warn't scared of the English government when they wanted to
hang him. He just lit out and left home. And when he come to this
country and was pore, that didn't scare him a mite neither. He
went to work and he made his money. And he warn't scared to tackle
this section when it was part wild and the Injuns had just been run
out of it. He made a big plantation out of a wilderness. And when
the war come on and his money begun to go, he warn't scared to be
pore again. And when the Yankees come through Tara and might of
burnt him out or killed him, he warn't fazed a bit and he warn't
licked neither. He just planted his front feet and stood his
ground. That's why I say he had our good points. There ain't
nothin' FROM THE OUTSIDE can lick any of us.

"But he had our failin's too, 'cause he could be licked from the
inside. I mean to say that what the whole world couldn't do, his
own heart could. When Mrs. O'Hara died, his heart died too and he
was licked. And what we seen walking 'round here warn't him."

Will paused and his eyes went quietly around the circle of faces.
The crowd stood in the hot sun as if enchanted to the ground and
whatever wrath they had felt for Suellen was forgotten. Will's
eyes rested for a moment on Scarlett and they crinkled slightly at
the corners as if he were inwardly smiling comfort to her.
Scarlett, who had been fighting back rising tears, did feel
comforted. Will was talking common sense instead of a lot of
tootle about reunions in another and better world and submitting
her will to God's. And Scarlett had always found strength and
comfort in common sense.

"And I don't want none of you to think the less of him for breakin'
like he done. All you all and me, too, are like him. We got the
same weakness and failin'. There ain't nothin' that walks can lick
us, any more than it could lick him, not Yankees nor Carpetbaggers
nor hard times nor high taxes nor even downright starvation. But
that weakness that's in our hearts can lick us in the time it takes
to bat your eye. It ain't always losin' someone you love that does
it, like it done Mr. O'Hara. Everybody's mainspring is different.
And I want to say this--folks whose main-springs are busted are
better dead. There ain't no place for them in the world these
days, and they're happier bein' dead. . . . That's why I'm sayin'
you all ain't got no cause to grieve for Mr. O'Hara now. The time
to grieve was back when Sherman come through and he lost Mrs.
O'Hara. Now that his body's gone to join his heart, I don't see
that we got reason to mourn, unless we're pretty damned selfish,
and I'm sayin' it who loved him like he was my own pa. . . . There
won't be no more words said, if you folks don't mind. The family
is too cut up to listen and it wouldn't be no kindness to them."

Will stopped and, turning to Mrs. Tarleton, he said in a lower
voice: "I wonder couldn't you take Scarlett in the house, Ma'm?
It ain't right for her to be standin' in the sun so long. And
Grandma Fontaine don't look any too peart neither, meanin' no
disrespect."

Startled at the abrupt switching from the eulogy to herself,
Scarlett went red with embarrassment as all eyes turned toward her.
Why should Will advertise her already obvious pregnancy? She gave
him a shamed indignant look, but Will's placid gaze bore her down.

"Please," his look said. "I know what I'm doin'."

Already he was the man of the house and, not wishing to make a
scene, Scarlett turned helplessly to Mrs. Tarleton. That lady,
suddenly diverted, as Will had intended, from thoughts of Suellen
to the always fascinating matter of breeding, be it animal or
human, took Scarlett's arm.

"Come in the house, honey."

Her face took on a look of kind, absorbed interest and Scarlett
suffered herself to be led through the crowd that gave way and made
a narrow path for her. There was a sympathetic murmuring as she
passed and several hands went out to pat her comfortingly. When
she came abreast Grandma Fontaine, the old lady put out a skinny
claw and said: "Give me your arm, child," and added with a fierce
glance at Sally and Young Miss: "No, don't you come. I don't want
you."

They passed slowly through the crowd which closed behind them and
went up the shady path toward the house, Mrs. Tarleton's eager
helping hand so strong under Scarlett's elbow that she was almost
lifted from the ground at each step.

"Now, why did Will do that?" cried Scarlett heatedly, when they
were out of earshot. "He practically said: 'Look at her! She's
going to have a baby!'"

"Well, sake's alive, you are, aren't you?" said Mrs. Tarleton.
"Will did right. It was foolish of you to stand in the hot sun
when you might have fainted and had a miscarriage."

"Will wasn't bothered about her miscarrying," said Grandma, a
little breathless as she labored across the front yard toward the
steps. There was a grim, knowing smile on her face. "Will's
smart. He didn't want either you or me, Beetrice, at the graveside.
He was scared of what we'd say and he knew this was the only way to
get rid of us. . . . And it was more than that. He didn't want
Scarlett to hear the clods dropping on the coffin. And he's right.
Just remember, Scarlett, as long as you don't hear that sound, folks
aren't actually dead to you. But once you hear it . . . Well, it's
the most dreadfully final sound in the world. . . . Help me up the
steps, child, and give me a hand, Beetrice. Scarlett don't any more
need your arm than she needs crutches and I'm not so peart, as Will
observed. . . . Will knew you were your father's pet and he didn't
want to make it worse for you than it already was. He figured it
wouldn't be so bad for your sisters. Suellen has her shame to
sustain her and Carreen her God. But you've got nothing to sustain
you, have you, child?"

"No," answered Scarlett, helping the old lady up the steps, faintly
surprised at the truth that sounded in the reedy old voice. "I've
never had anything to sustain me--except Mother."

"But when you lost her, you found you could stand alone, didn't
you? Well, some folks can't. Your pa was one. Will's right.
Don't you grieve. He couldn't get along without Ellen and he's
happier where he is. Just like I'll be happier when I join the Old
Doctor."

She spoke without any desire for sympathy and the two gave her
none. She spoke as briskly and naturally as if her husband were
alive and in Jonesboro and a short buggy ride would bring them
together. Grandma was too old and had seen too much to fear death.

"But--you can stand alone too," said Scarlett.

"Yes, but it's powerful uncomfortable at times."

"Look here, Grandma," interrupted Mrs. Tarleton, "you ought not to
talk to Scarlett like that. She's upset enough already. What with
her trip down here and that tight dress and her grief and the heat,
she's got enough to make her miscarry without your adding to it,
talking grief and sorrow."

"God's nightgown!" cried Scarlett in irritation. "I'm not upset!
And I'm not one of those sickly miscarrying fools!"

"You never can tell," said Mrs. Tarleton omnisciently. "I lost my
first when I saw a bull gore one of our darkies and--you remember
my red mare, Nellie? Now, there was the healthiest-looking mare
you ever saw but she was nervous and high strung and if I didn't
watch her, she'd--"

"Beetrice, hush," said Grandma. "Scarlett wouldn't miscarry on a
bet. Let's us sit here in the hall where it's cool. There's a
nice draft through here. Now, you go fetch us a glass of
buttermilk, Beetrice, if there's any in the kitchen. Or look in
the pantry and see if there's any wine. I could do with a glass.
We'll sit here till the folks come up to say goodby."

"Scarlett ought to be in bed," insisted Mrs. Tarleton, running her
eyes over her with the expert air of one who calculated a pregnancy
to the last minute of its length.

"Get going," said Grandma, giving her a prod with her cane, and
Mrs. Tarleton went toward the kitchen, throwing her hat carelessly
on the sideboard and running her hands through her damp red hair.

Scarlett lay back in her chair and unbuttoned the two top buttons
of her tight basque. It was cool and dim in the high-ceilinged
hall and the vagrant draft that went from back to front of the
house was refreshing after the heat of the sun. She looked across
the hall into the parlor where Gerald had lain and, wrenching her
thoughts from him, looked up at the portrait of Grandma Robillard
hanging above the fireplace. The bayonet-scarred portrait with its
high-piled hair, hall-exposed breasts and cool insolence had, as
always, a tonic effect upon her.

"I don't know which hit Beetrice Tarleton worse, losing her boys or
her horses," said Grandma Fontaine. "She never did pay much mind
to Jim or her girls, you know. She's one of those folks Will was
talking about. Her mainspring's busted. Sometimes I wonder if she
won't go the way your pa went. She wasn't ever happy unless horses
or humans were breeding right in her face and none of her girls are
married or got any prospects of catching husbands in this county,
so she's got nothing to occupy her mind. If she wasn't such lady
at heart, she'd be downright common. . . . Was Will telling the
truth about marrying Suellen?"

"Yes," said Scarlett, looking the old lady full in the eye.
Goodness, she could remember the time when she was scared to death
of Grandma Fontaine! Well, she'd grown up since then and she'd
just as soon as not tell her to go to the devil if she meddled in
affairs at Tara.

"He could do better," said Grandma candidly.

"Indeed?" said Scarlett haughtily.

"Come off your high horse, Miss," said the old lady tartly. "I
shan't attack your precious sister, though I might have if I'd
stayed at the burying ground. What I mean is with the scarcity of
men in the neighborhood, Will could marry most any of the girls.
There's Beetrice's four wild cats and the Munroe girls and the
McRae--"

"He's going to marry Sue and that's that."

"She's lucky to get him."

"Tara is lucky to get him."

"You love this place, don't you?"

"Yes."

"So much that you don't mind your sister marrying out of her class
as long as you have a man around to care for Tara?"

"Class?" said Scarlett, startled at the idea. "Class? What does
class matter now, so long as a girl gets a husband who can take
care of her?"

"That's a debatable question," said Old Miss. "Some folks would
say you were talking common sense. Others would say you were
letting down bars that ought never be lowered one inch. Will's
certainly not quality folks and some of your people were."

Her sharp old eyes went to the portrait of Grandma Robillard.

Scarlett thought of Will, lank, unimpressive, mild, eternally
chewing a straw, his whole appearance deceptively devoid of energy,
like that of most Crackers. He did not have behind him a long line
of ancestors of wealth, prominence and blood. The first of Will's
family to set foot on Georgia soil might even have been one of
Oglethorpe's debtors or a bond servant. Will had not been to
college. In fact, four years in a backwoods school was all the
education he had ever had. He was honest and he was loyal, he was
patient and he was hard working, but certainly he was not quality.
Undoubtedly by Robillard standards, Suellen was coming down in the
world.

"So you approve of Will coming into your family?"

"Yes," answered Scarlett fiercely, ready to pounce upon the old
lady at the first words of condemnation.

"You may kiss me," said Grandma surprisingly, and she smiled in her
most approving manner. "I never liked you much till now, Scarlett.
You were always hard as a hickory nut, even as a child, and I don't
like hard females, barring myself. But I do like the way you meet
things. You don't make a fuss about things that can't be helped,
even if they are disagreeable. You take your fences cleanly like a
good hunter."

Scarlett smiled uncertainly and pecked obediently at the withered
cheek presented to her. It was pleasant to hear approving words
again, even if she had little idea what they meant.

"There's plenty of folks hereabouts who'll have something to say
about you letting Sue marry a Cracker--for all that everybody likes
Will. They'll say in one breath what a fine man he is and how
terrible it is for an O'Hara girl to marry beneath her. But don't
you let it bother you."

"I've never bothered about what people said."

"So I've heard." There was a hint of acid in the old voice.
"Well, don't bother about what folks say. It'll probably be a very
successful marriage. Of course, Will's always going to look like a
Cracker and marriage won't improve his grammar any. And, even if
he makes a mint of money, he'll never lend any shine and sparkle to
Tara, like your father did. Crackers are short on sparkle. But
Will's a gentleman at heart. He's got the right instincts. Nobody
but a born gentleman could have put his finger on what is wrong
with us as accurately as he just did, down there at the burying.
The whole world can't lick us but we can lick ourselves by longing
too hard for things we haven't got any more--and by remembering too
much. Yes, Will will do well by Suellen and by Tara."

"Then you approve of me letting him marry her?"

"God, no!" The old voice was tired and bitter but vigorous.
"Approve of Crackers marrying into old families? Bah! Would I
approve of breeding scrub stock to thoroughbreds? Oh, Crackers are
good and solid and honest but--"

"But you said you thought it would be a successful match!" cried
Scarlett bewildered.

"Oh, I think it's good for Suellen to marry Will--to marry anybody
for that matter, because she needs a husband bad. And where else
could she get one? And where else could you get as good a manager
for Tara? But that doesn't mean I like the situation any better
than you do."

But I do like it, thought Scarlett trying to grasp the old lady's
meaning. I'm glad Will is going to marry her. Why should she
think I minded? She's taking it for granted that I do mind, just
like her.

She felt puzzled and a little ashamed, as always when people
attributed to her emotions and motives they possessed and thought
she shared.

Grandma fanned herself with her palmetto leaf and went on briskly:
"I don't approve of the match any more than you do but I'm
practical and so are you. And when it comes to something that's
unpleasant but can't be helped, I don't see any sense in screaming
and kicking about it. That's no way to meet the ups and downs of
life. I know because my family and the Old Doctor's family have
had more than our share of ups and downs. And if we folks have a
motto, it's this: 'Don't holler--smile and bide your time.' We've
survived a passel of things that way, smiling and biding our time,
and we've gotten to be experts at surviving. We had to be. We've
always bet on the wrong horses. Run out of France with the
Huguenots, run out of England with the Cavaliers, run out of
Scotland with Bonnie Prince Charlie, run out of Haiti by the
niggers and now licked by the Yankees. But we always turn up on
top in a few years. You know why?"

She cocked her head and Scarlett thought she looked like nothing so
much as an old, knowing parrot.

"No, I don't know, I'm sure," she answered politely. But she was
heartily bored, even as she had been the day when Grandma launched
on her memories of the Creek uprising.

"Well, this is the reason. We bow to the inevitable. We're not
wheat, we're buckwheat! When a storm comes along it flattens ripe
wheat because it's dry and can't bend with the wind. But ripe
buckwheat's got sap in it and it bends. And when the wind has
passed, it springs up almost as straight and strong as before. We
aren't a stiff-necked tribe. We're mighty limber when a hard
wind's blowing, because we know it pays to be limber. When trouble
comes we bow to the inevitable without any mouthing, and we work
and we smile and we bide our time. And we play along with lesser
folks and we take what we can get from them. And when we're strong
enough, we kick the folks whose necks we've climbed over. That, my
child, is the secret of the survival." And after a pause, she
added: "I pass it on to you."

The old lady cackled, as if she were amused by her words, despite
the venom in them. She looked as if she expected some comment from
Scarlett but the words had made little sense to her and she could
think of nothing to say.

"No, sir," Old Miss went on, "our folks get flattened out but they
rise up again, and that's more than I can say for plenty of people
not so far away from here. Look at Cathleen Calvert. You can see
what she's come to. Poor white! And a heap lower than the man she
married. Look at the McRae family. Flat to the ground, helpless,
don't know what to do, don't know how to do anything. Won't even
try. They spend their time whining about the good old days. And
look at--well, look at nearly anybody in this County except my Alex
and my Sally and you and Jim Tarleton and his girls and some
others. The rest have gone under because they didn't have any sap
in them, because they didn't have the gumption to rise up again.
There never was anything to those folks but money and darkies, and
now that the money and darkies are gone, those folks will be
Cracker in another generation."

"You forgot the Wilkes."

"No, I didn't forget them. I just thought I'd be polite and not
mention them, seeing that Ashley's a guest under this roof. But
seeing as how you've brought up their names--look at them! There's
India who from all I hear is a dried-up old maid already, giving
herself all kinds of widowed airs because Stu Tarleton was killed
and not making any effort to forget him and try to catch another
man. Of course, she's old but she could catch some widower with a
big family if she tried. And poor Honey was always a man-crazy
fool with no more sense than a guinea hen. And as for Ashley, look
at him!"

"Ashley is a very fine man," began Scarlett hotly.

"I never said he wasn't but he's as helpless as a turtle on his
back. If the Wilkes family pulls through these hard times, it'll
be Melly who pulls them through. Not Ashley."

"Melly! Lord, Grandma! What are you talking about? I've lived
with Melly long enough to know she's sickly and scared and hasn't
the gumption to say Boo to a goose."

"Now why on earth should anyone want to say Boo to a goose? It
always sounded like a waste of time to me. She might not say Boo
to a goose but she'd say Boo to the world or the Yankee government
or anything else that threatened her precious Ashley or her boy or
her notions of gentility. Her way isn't your way, Scarlett, or my
way. It's the way your mother would have acted if she'd lived.
Melly puts me in mind of your mother when she was young. . . . And
maybe she'll pull the Wilkes family through."

"Oh, Melly's a well-meaning little ninny. But you are very unjust
to Ashley. He's--"

"Oh, foot! Ashley was bred to read books and nothing else. That
doesn't help a man pull himself out of a tough fix, like we're all
in now. From what I hear, he's the worst plow hand in the County!
Now you just compare him with my Alex! Before the war, Alex was
the most worthless dandy in the world and he never had a thought
beyond a new cravat and getting drunk and shooting somebody and
chasing girls who were no better than they should be. But look at
him now! He learned farming because he had to learn. He'd have
starved and so would all of us. Now he raises the best cotton in
the County--yes, Miss! It's a heap better than Tara cotton!--and
he knows what to do with hogs and chickens. Ha! He's a fine boy
for all his bad temper. He knows how to bide his time and change
with changing ways and when all this Reconstruction misery is over,
you're going to see my Alex as rich a man as his father and his
grandfather were. But Ashley--"

Scarlett was smarting at the slight to Ashley.

"It all sounds like tootle to me," she said coldly.

"Well, it shouldn't," said Grandma, fastening a sharp eye upon her.
"For it's just exactly the course you've been following since you
went to Atlanta. Oh, yes! We hear of your didoes, even if we are
buried down here in the country. You've changed with the changing
times too. We hear how you suck up to the Yankees and the white
trash and the new-rich Carpetbaggers to get money out of them.
Butter doesn't melt in your mouth from all I can hear. Well, go to
it, I say. And get every cent out of them you can, but when you've
got enough money, kick them in the face, because they can't serve
you any longer. Be sure you do that and do it properly, for trash
hanging onto your coat tails can ruin you."

Scarlett looked at her, her brow wrinkling with the effort to
digest the words. They still didn't make much sense and she was
still angry at Ashley being called a turtle on his back.

"I think you're wrong about Ashley," she said abruptly.

"Scarlett, you just aren't smart."

"That's your opinion," said Scarlett rudely, wishing it were
permissible to smack old ladies' jaws.

"Oh, you're smart enough about dollars and cents. That's a man's
way of being smart. But you aren't smart at all like a woman. You
aren't a speck smart about folks."

Scarlett's eyes began to snap fire and her hands to clench and
unclench.

"I've made you good and mad, haven't I?" asked the old lady,
smiling. "Well, I aimed to do just that."

"Oh, you did, did you? And why, pray?"

"I had good and plenty reasons."

Grandma sank back in her chair and Scarlett suddenly realized that
she looked very tired and incredibly old. The tiny clawlike hands
folded over the fan were yellow and waxy as a dead person's. The
anger went out of Scarlett's heart as a thought came to her. She
leaned over and took one of the hands in hers.

"You're a mighty sweet old liar," she said. "You didn't mean a
word of all this rigmarole. You've just been talking to keep my
mind off Pa, haven't you?"

"Don't fiddle with me!" said Old Miss grumpily, jerking away her
hand. "Partly for that reason, partly because what I've been
telling you is the truth and you're just too stupid to realize it."

But she smiled a little and took the sting from her words.
Scarlett's heart emptied itself of wrath about Ashley. It was nice
to know Grandma hadn't meant any of it.

"Thank you, just the same. It was nice of you to talk to me--and
I'm glad to know you're with me about Will and Suellen, even if--
even if a lot of other people do disapprove."

Mrs. Tarleton came down the hall, carrying two glasses of
buttermilk. She did all domestic things badly and the glasses were
slopping over.

"I had to go clear to the spring house to get it," she said.
"Drink it quick because the folks are coming up from the burying
ground. Scarlett, are you really going to let Suellen marry Will?
Not that he isn't a sight too good for her but you know he is a
Cracker and--"

Scarlett's eyes met those of Grandma. There was a wicked sparkle
in the old eyes that found an answer in her own.



CHAPTER XLI


When the last good-by had been said and the last sound of wheels
and hooves died away, Scarlett went into Ellen's office and removed
a gleaming object from where she had hidden it the night before
between the yellowed papers in the pigeon-holes of the secretary.
Hearing Pork sniffling in the dining room as he went about laying
the table for dinner she called to him. He came to her, his black
face as forlorn as a lost and masterless hound.

"Pork," she said sternly, "you cry just once more and I'll--I'll
cry, too. You've got to stop."

"Yas'm. Ah try but eve'y time Ah try Ah thinks of Mist' Gerald
an'--"

"Well, don't think. I can stand everybody else's tears but not
yours. There," she broke off gently, "don't you see? I can't
stand yours because I know how you loved him. Blow your nose,
Pork. I've got a present for you."

A little interest flickered in Pork's eyes as he blew his nose
loudly but it was more politeness than interest.

"You remember that night you got shot robbing somebody's hen
house?"

"Lawd Gawd, Miss Scarlett! Ah ain' never--"

"Well, you did, so don't lie to me about it at this late date. You
remember I said I was going to give you a watch for being so
faithful?"

"Yas'm, Ah 'members. Ah figgered you'd done fergot."

"No, I didn't forget and here it is."

She held out for him a massive gold watch, heavily embossed, from
which dangled a chain with many fobs and seals.

"Fo' Gawd, Miss Scarlett!" cried Pork. "Dat's Mist' Gerald's
watch! Ah done seen him look at dat watch a milyun times!"

"Yes, it's Pa's watch, Pork, and I'm giving it to you. Take it."

"Oh, no'm!" Pork retreated in horror. "Dat's a w'ite gempmum's
watch an' Mist' Gerald's ter boot. Huccome you talk 'bout givin'
it ter me, Miss Scnrlett? Dat watch belong by rights ter lil Wade
Hampton."

"It belongs to you. What did Wade Hampton ever do for Pa? Did he
look after him when he was sick and feeble? Did he bathe him and
dress him and shave him? Did he stick by him when the Yankees
came? Did he steal for him? Don't be a fool, Pork. If ever
anyone deserved a watch, you do, and I know Pa would approve.
Here."

She picked up the black hand and laid the watch in the palm. Pork
gazed at it reverently and slowly delight spread over his face.

"Fer me, truly, Miss Scarlett?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Well'm--thankee, Ma'm."

"Would you like for me to take it to Atlanta and have it engraved?"

"Whut's dis engrabed mean?" Pork's voice was suspicious.

"It means to put writing on the back of it, like--like 'To Pork
from the O'Haras--Well done good and faithful servant.'"

"No'm--thankee. Ma'm. Never mind de engrabin'." Pork retreated a
step, clutching the watch firmly.

A little smile twitched her lips.

"What's the matter, Pork? Don't you trust me to bring it back?"

"Yas'm, Ah trus'es you--only, well'm, you mout change yo' mind."

"I wouldn't do that."

"Well'm, you mout sell it. Ah spec it's wuth a heap."

"Do you think I'd sell Pa's watch?"

"Yas'm--ef you needed de money."

"You ought to be beat for that, Pork. I've a mind to take the
watch back."

"No'm, you ain'!" The first faint smile of the day showed on
Pork's grief-worn face. "Ah knows you--An' Miss Scarlett--"

"Yes, Pork?"

"Ef you wuz jes' half as nice ter w'ite folks as you is ter
niggers, Ah spec de worl' would treat you better."

"It treats me well enough," she said. "Now, go find Mr. Ashley and
tell him I want to see him here, right away."

Ashley sat on Ellen's little writing chair, his long body dwarfing
the frail bit of furniture while Scarlett offered him a half-
interest in the mill. Not once did his eyes meet hers and he spoke
no word of interruption. He sat looking down at his hands, turning
them over slowly, inspecting first palms and then backs, as though
he had never seen them before. Despite hard work, they were still
slender and sensitive looking and remarkably well tended for a
farmer's hands.

His bowed head and silence disturbed her a little and she redoubled
her efforts to make the mill sound attractive. She brought to
bear, too, all the charm of smile and glance she possessed but they
were wasted, for he did not raise his eyes. If he would only look
at her! She made no mention of the information Will had given her
of Ashley's determination to go North and spoke with the outward
assumption that no obstacle stood in the way of his agreement with
her plan. Still he did not speak and finally, her words trailed
into silence. There was a determined squareness about his slender
shoulders that alarmed her. Surely he wouldn't refuse! What
earthly reason could he have for refusing?

"Ashley," she began again and paused. She had not intended using
her pregnancy as an argument, had shrunk from the thought of Ashley
even seeing her so bloated and ugly, but as her other persuasions
seemed to have made no impression, she decided to use it and her
helplessness as a last card.

"You must come to Atlanta. I do need your help so badly now,
because I can't look after the mills. It may be months before I
can because--you see--well, because . . ."

"Please!" he said roughly. "Good God, Scarlett!"

He rose and went abruptly to the window and stood with his back to
her, watching the solemn single file of ducks parade across the
barnyard.

"Is that--is that why you won't look at me?" she questioned
forlornly. "I know I look--"

He swung around in a flash and his gray eyes met hers with an
intensity that made her hands go to her throat.

"Damn your looks!" he said with a swift violence. "You know you
always look beautiful to me."

Happiness flooded her until her eyes were liquid with tears.

"How sweet of you to say that! For I was so ashamed to let you see
me--"

"You ashamed? Why should you be ashamed? I'm the one to feel
shame and I do. If it hadn't been for my stupidity you wouldn't be
in this fix. You'd never have married Frank. I should never have
let you leave Tara last winter. Oh, fool that I was! I should
have known you--known you were desperate, so desperate that you'd--
I should have--I should have--" His face went haggard.

Scarlett's heart beat wildly. He was regretting that he had not
run away with her!

"The least I could have done was go out and commit highway robbery
or murder to get the tax money for you when you had taken us in as
beggars. Oh, I messed it up all the way around!"

Her heart contracted with disappointment and some of the happiness
went from her, for these were not the words she hoped to hear.

"I would have gone anyway," she said tiredly. "I couldn't have let
you do anything like that. And anyway, it's done now."

"Yes, it's done now," he said with slow bitterness. "You wouldn't
have let me do anything dishonorable but you would sell yourself to
a man you didn't love--and bear his child, so that my family and I
wouldn't starve. It was kind of you to shelter my helplessness."

The edge in his voice spoke of a raw, unhealed wound that ached
within him and his words brought shame to her eyes. He was swift
to see it and his face changed to gentleness.

"You didn't think I was blaming you? Dear God, Scarlett! No. You
are the bravest woman I've ever known. It's myself I'm blaming."

He turned and looked out of the window again and the shoulders
presented to her gaze did not look quite so square. Scarlett
waited a long moment in silence, hoping that Ashley would return to
the mood in which he spoke of her beauty, hoping he would say more
words that she could treasure. It had been so long since she had
seen him and she had lived on memories until they were worn thin.
She knew he still loved her. That fact was evident, in every line
of him, in every bitter, self-condemnatory word, in his resentment
at her bearing Frank's child. She so longed to hear him say it in
words, longed to speak words herself that would provoke a
confession, but she dared not. She remembered her promise given
last winter in the orchard, that she would never again throw
herself at his head. Sadly she knew that promise must be kept if
Ashley were to remain near her. One cry from her of love and
longing, one look that pleaded for his arms, and the matter would
be settled forever. Ashley would surely go to New York. And he
must not go away.

"Oh, Ashley, don't blame yourself! How could it be your fault?
You will come to Atlanta and help me, won't you?"

"No."

"But, Ashley," her voice was beginning to break with anguish and
disappointment, "But I'd counted on you. I do need you so. Frank
can't help me. He's so busy with the store and if you don't come I
don't know where I can get a man! Everybody in Atlanta who is
smart is busy with his own affairs and the others are so
incompetent and--"

"It's no use, Scarlett."

"You mean you'd rather go to New York and live among Yankees than
come to Atlanta?"

"Who told you that?" He turned and faced her, faint annoyance
wrinkling his forehead.

"Will."

"Yes, I've decided to go North. An old friend who made the Grand
Tour with me before the war has offered me a position in his
father's bank. It's better so, Scarlett. I'd be no good to you.
I know nothing of the lumber business."

"But you know less about banking and it's much harder! And I know
I'd make far more allowances for your inexperience than Yankees
would!"

He winced and she knew she had said the wrong thing. He turned and
looked out of the window again.

"I don't want allowances made for me. I want to stand on my own
feet for what I'm worth. What have I done with my life, up till
now? It's time I made something of myself--or went down through my
own fault. I've been your pensioner too long already."

"But I'm offering you a half-interest in the mill, Ashley! You
would be standing on your own feet because--you see, it would be
your own business."

"It would amount to the same thing. I'd not be buying the half-
interest. I'd be taking it as a gift. And I've taken too many
gifts from you already, Scarlett--food and shelter and even clothes
for myself and Melanie and the baby. And I've given you nothing in
return."

"Oh, but you have! Will couldn't have--"

"I can split kindling very nicely now."

"Oh, Ashley!" she cried despairingly, tears in her eyes at the
jeering note in his voice. "What has happened to you since I've
been gone? You sound so hard and bitter! You didn't used to be
this way."

"What's happened? A very remarkable thing, Scarlett. I've been
thinking. I don't believe I really thought from the time of the
surrender until you went away from here. I was in a state of
suspended animation and it was enough that I had something to eat
and a bed to lie on. But when you went to Atlanta, shouldering a
man's burden, I saw myself as much less than a man--much less,
indeed, than a woman. Such thoughts aren't pleasant to live with
and I do not intend to live with them any longer. Other men came
out of the war with less than I had, and look at them now. So I'm
going to New York."

"But--I don't understand! If it's work you want, why won't Atlanta
do as well as New York? And my mill--"

"No, Scarlett. This is my last chance. I'll go North. If I go to
Atlanta and work for you, I'm lost forever."

The word "lost--lost--lost" dinged frighteningly in her heart like
a death bell sounding. Her eyes went quickly to his but they were
wide and crystal gray and they were looking through her and beyond
her at some fate she could not see, could not understand.

"Lost? Do you mean--have you done something the Atlanta Yankees
can get you for? I mean, about helping Tony get away or--or--
Oh, Ashley, you aren't in the Ku Klux, are you?"

His remote eyes came back to her swiftly and he smiled a brief
smile that never reached his eyes.

"I had forgotten you were so literal. No, it's not the Yankees I'm
afraid of. I mean if I go to Atlanta and take help from you again,
I bury forever any hope of ever standing alone."

"Oh," she sighed in quick relief, "if it's only that!"

"Yes," and he smiled again, the smile more wintry than before.
"Only that. Only my masculine pride, my self-respect and, if you
choose to so call it, my immortal soul."

"But," she swung around on another tack, "you could gradually buy
the mill from me and it would be your own and then--"

"Scarlett," he interrupted fiercely, "I tell you, no! There are
other reasons."

"What reasons?"

"You know my reasons better than anyone in the world."

"Oh--that? But--that'll be all right," she assured swiftly. "I
promised, you know, out in the orchard, last winter and I'll keep
my promise and--"

"Then you are surer of yourself than I am. I could not count on
myself to keep such a promise. I should not have said that but I
had to make you understand. Scarlett, I will not talk of this any
more. It's finished. When Will and Suellen marry, I am going to
New York."

His eyes, wide and stormy, met hers for an instant and then he went
swiftly across the room. His hand was on the door knob. Scarlett
stared at him in agony. The interview was ended and she had lost.
Suddenly weak from the strain and sorrow of the last day and the
present disappointment, her nerves broke abruptly and she screamed:
"Oh, Ashley!" And, flinging herself down on the sagging sofa, she
burst into wild crying.

She heard his uncertain footsteps leaving the door and his helpless
voice saying her name over and over above her head. There was a
swift pattering of feet racing up the hall from the kitchen and
Melanie burst into the room, her eyes wide with alarm.

"Scarlett . . . the baby isn't . . . ?"

Scarlett burrowed her head in the dusty upholstery and screamed
again.

"Ashley--he's so mean! So doggoned mean--so hateful!"

"Oh, Ashley, what have you done to her?" Melanie threw herself on
the floor beside the sofa and gathered Scarlett into her arms.
"What have you said? How could you! You might bring on the baby!
There, my darling, put your head on Melanie's shoulder! What is
wrong?"

"Ashley--he's so--so bullheaded and hateful!"

"Ashley, I'm surprised at you! Upsetting her so much and in her
condition and Mr. O'Hara hardly in his grave!"

"Don't you fuss at him!" cried Scarlett illogically, raising her
head abruptly from Melanie's shoulder, her coarse black hair
tumbling out from its net and her face streaked with tears. "He's
got a right to do as he pleases!"

"Melanie," said Ashley, his face white, "let me explain. Scarlett
was kind enough to offer me a position in Atlanta as manager of one
of her mills--"

"Manager!" cried Scarlett indignantly. "I offered him a half-
interest and he--"

"And I told her I had already made arrangements for us to go North
and she--"

"Oh," cried Scarlett, beginning to sob again, "I told him and told
him how much I needed him--how I couldn't get anybody to manage the
mill--how I was going to have this baby--and he refused to come!
And now--now, I'll have to sell the mill and I know I can't get
anything like a good price for it and I'll lose money and I guess
maybe we'll starve, but he won't care. He's so mean!"

She burrowed her head back into Melanie's thin shoulder and some of
the real anguish went from her as a flicker of hope woke in her.
She could sense that in Melanie's devoted heart she had an ally,
feel Melanie's indignation that anyone, even her beloved husband,
should make Scarlett cry. Melanie flew at Ashley like a small
determined dove and pecked him for the first time in her life.

"Ashley, how could you refuse her? And after all she's done for
us! How ungrateful you make us appear! And she so helpless now
with the bab-- How unchivalrous of you! She helped us when we
needed help and now you deny her when she needs you!"

Scarlett peeped slyly at Ashley and saw surprise and uncertainty
plain in his face as he looked into Melanie's dark indignant eyes.
Scarlett was surprised, too, at the vigor of Melanie's attack, for
she knew Melanie considered her husband beyond wifely reproaches
and thought his decisions second only to God's.

"Melanie . . ." he began and then threw out his hands helplessly.

"Ashley, how can you hesitate? Think what she's done for us--for
me! I'd have died in Atlanta when Beau came if it hadn't been for
her! And she--yes, she killed a Yankee, defending us. Did you
know that? She killed a man for us. And she worked and slaved
before you and Will came home, just to keep food in our mouths.
And when I think of her plowing and picking cotton, I could just--
Oh, my darling!" And she swooped her head and kissed Scarlett's
tumbled hair in fierce loyalty. "And now the first time she asks
us to do something for her--"

"You don't need to tell me what she has done for us."

"And Ashley, just think! Besides helping her, just think what
it'll mean for us to live in Atlanta among our own people and not
have to live with Yankees! There'll be Auntie and Uncle Henry and
all our friends, and Beau can have lots of playmates and go to
school. If we went North, we couldn't let him go to school and
associate with Yankee children and have pickaninnies in his class!
We'd have to have a governess and I don't see how we'd afford--"

"Melanie," said Ashley and his voice was deadly quiet, "do you
really want to go to Atlanta so badly? You never said so when we
talked about going to New York. You never intimated--"

"Oh, but when we talked about going to New York, I thought there
was nothing for you in Atlanta and, besides, it wasn't my place to
say anything. It's a wife's duty to go where her husband goes.
But now that Scarlett needs us so and has a position that only you
can fill we can go home! Home!" Her voice was rapturous as she
squeezed Scarlett. "And I'll see Five Points again and Peachtree
road and--and-- Oh, how I've missed them all! And maybe we could
have a little home of our own! I wouldn't care how little and
tacky it was but--a home of our own!"

Her eyes blazed with enthusiasm and happiness and the two stared at
her, Ashley with a queer stunned look, Scarlett with surprise
mingled with shame. It had never occurred to her that Melanie
missed Atlanta so much and longed to be back, longed for a home of
her own. She had seemed so contented at Tara it came to Scarlett
as a shock that she was homesick.

"Oh Scarlett, how good of you to plan all this for us! You knew
how I longed for home!"

As usual when confronted by Melanie's habit of attributing worthy
motives where no worth existed, Scarlett was ashamed and irritated,
and suddenly she could not meet either Ashley's or Melanie's eyes.

"We could get a little house of our own. Do you realize that we've
been married five years and never had a home?"

"You can stay with us at Aunt Pitty's. That's your home," mumbled
Scarlett, toying with a pillow and keeping her eyes down to hide
dawning triumph in them as she felt the tide turning her way.

"No, but thank you just the same, darling. That would crowd us so.
We'll get a house-- Oh, Ashley, do say Yes!"

"Scarlett," said Ashley and his voice was toneless, "look at me."

Startled, she looked up and met gray eyes that were bitter and full
of tired futility.

"Scarlett, I will come to Atlanta. . . . I cannot fight you both."

He turned and walked out of the room. Some of the triumph in her
heart was dulled by a nagging fear. The look in his eyes when he
spoke had been the same as when he said he would be lost forever if
he came to Atlanta.



After Suellen and Will married and Carreen went off to Charleston
to the convent, Ashley, Melanie and Beau came to Atlanta, bringing
Dilcey with them to cook and nurse. Prissy and Pork were left at
Tara until such a time as Will could get other darkies to help him
in the fields and then they, too, would come to town.

The little brick house that Ashley took for his family was on Ivy
Street directly behind Aunt Pitty's house and the two back yards
ran together, divided only by a ragged overgrown privet hedge.
Melanie had chosen it especially for this reason. She said, on the
first morning of her return to Atlanta as she laughed and cried and
embraced Scarlett and Aunt Pitty, she had been separated from her
loved ones for so long that she could never be close enough to them
again.

The house had originally been two stories high but the upper floor
had been destroyed by shells during the siege and the owner,
returning after the surrender, had lacked the money to replace it.
He had contented himself with putting a flat roof on the remaining
first floor which gave the building the squat, disproportionate
look of a child's playhouse built of shoe boxes. The house was
high from the ground, built over a large cellar, and the long
sweeping flight of stairs which reached it made it look slightly
ridiculous. But the flat, squashed look of the place was partly
redeemed by the two fine old oaks which shaded it and a dusty-
leaved magnolia, splotched with white blossoms, standing beside the
front steps. The lawn was wide and green with thick clover and
bordering it was a straggling, unkempt privet hedge, interlaced
with sweet-smelling honeysuckle vines. Here and there in the
grass, roses threw out sprangles from crushed old stems and pink
and white crepe myrtle bloomed as valiantly as if war had not
passed over their heads and Yankee horses gnawed their boughs.

Scarlett thought it quite the ugliest dwelling she had ever seen
but, to Melanie, Twelve Oaks in all its grandeur had not been more
beautiful. It was home and she and Ashley and Beau were at last
together under their own roof.

India Wilkes came back from Macon, where she and Honey had lived
since 1864, and took up her residence with her brother, crowding
the occupants of the little house. But Ashley and Melanie welcomed
her. Times had changed, money was scarce, but nothing had altered
the rule of Southern life that families always made room gladly for
indigent or unmarried female relatives.

Honey had married and, so India said, married beneath her, a coarse
Westerner from Mississippi who had settled in Macon. He had a red
face and a loud voice and jolly ways. India had not approved of
the match and, not approving, had not been happy in her brother-in-
law's home. She welcomed the news that Ashley now had a home of
his own, so she could remove herself from uncongenial surroundings
and also from the distressing sight of her sister so fatuously
happy with a man unworthy of her.

The rest of the family privately thought that the giggling and
simple-minded Honey had done far better than could be expected and
they marveled that she had caught any man. Her husband was a
gentleman and a man of some means; but to India, born in Georgia
and reared in Virginia traditions, anyone not from the eastern
seaboard was a boor and a barbarian. Probably Honey's husband was
as happy to be relieved of her company as she was to leave him, for
India was not easy to live with these days.

The mantle of spinsterhood was definitely on her shoulders now.
She was twenty-five and looked it, and so there was no longer any
need for her to try to be attractive. Her pale lashless eyes
looked directly and uncompromisingly upon the world and her thin
lips were ever set in haughty tightness. There was an air of
dignity and pride about her now that, oddly enough, became her
better than the determined girlish sweetness of her days at Twelve
Oaks. The position she held was almost that of a widow. Everyone
knew that Stuart Tarleton would have married her had he not been
killed at Gettysburg, and so she was accorded the respect due a
woman who had been wanted if not wed.

The six rooms of the little house on Ivy Street were soon scantily
furnished with the cheapest pine and oak furniture in Frank's store
for, as Ashley was penniless and forced to buy on credit, he
refused anything except the least expensive and bought only the
barest necessities. This embarrassed Frank who was fond of Ashley
and it distressed Scarlett. Both she and Frank would willingly
have given, without any charge, the finest mahogany and carved
rosewood in the store, but the Wilkeses obstinately refused. Their
house was painfully ugly and bare and Scarlett hated to see Ashley
living in the uncarpeted, uncurtained rooms. But he did not seem
to notice his surroundings and Melanie, having her own home for the
first time since her marriage, was so happy she was actually proud
of the place. Scarlett would have suffered agonies of humiliation
at having friends find her without draperies and carpets and
cushions and the proper number of chairs and teacups and spoons.
But Melanie did the honors of her house as though plush curtains
and brocade sofas were hers.

For all her obvious happiness, Melanie was not well. Little Beau
had cost her her health, and the hard work she had done at Tara
since his birth had taken further toll of her strength. She was so
thin that her small bones seemed ready to come through her white
skin. Seen from a distance, romping about the back yard with her
child, she looked like a little girl, for her waist was unbelievably
tiny and she had practically no figure. She had no bust and her
hips were as flat as little Beau's and as she had neither the pride
nor the good sense (so Scarlett thought) to sew ruffles in the bosom
of her basque or pads on the back of her corsets, her thinness was
very obvious. Like her body, her face was too thin and too pale and
her silky brows, arched and delicate as a butterfly's feelers, stood
out too blackly against her colorless skin. In her small face, her
eyes were too large for beauty, the dark smudges under them making
them appear enormous, but the expression in them had not altered
since the days of her unworried girlhood. War and constant pain and
hard work had been powerless against their sweet tranquillity. They
were the eyes of a happy woman, a woman around whom storms might
blow without ever ruffling the serene core of her being.

How did she keep her eyes that way, thought Scarlett, looking at
her enviously. She knew her own eyes sometimes had the look of a
hungry cat. What was it Rhett had said once about Melanie's eyes--
some foolishness about them being like candles? Oh, yes, like two
good deeds in a naughty world. Yes, they were like candles,
candles shielded from every wind, two soft lights glowing with
happiness at being home again among her friends.

The little house was always full of company. Melanie had been a
favorite even as a child and the town flocked to welcome her home
again. Everyone brought presents for the house, bric-a-brac,
pictures, a silver spoon or two, linen pillow cases, napkins, rag
rugs, small articles which they had saved from Sherman and
treasured but which they now swore were of no earthly use to them.

Old men who had campaigned in Mexico with her father came to see
her, bringing visitors to meet "old Colonel Hamilton's sweet
daughter." Her mother's old friends clustered about her, for
Melanie had a respectful deference to her elders that was very
soothing to dowagers in these wild days when young people seemed to
have forgotten all their manners. Her contemporaries, the young
wives, mothers and widows, loved her because she had suffered what
they had suffered, had not become embittered and always lent them a
sympathetic ear. The young people came, as young people always
come, simply because they had a good time at her home and met there
the friends they wanted to meet.

Around Melanie's tactful and self-effacing person, there rapidly
grew up a clique of young and old who represented what was left of
the best of Atlanta's ante-bellum society, all poor in purse, all
proud in family, die-hards of the stoutest variety. It was as if
Atlanta society, scattered and wrecked by war, depleted by death,
bewildered by change, had found in her an unyielding nucleus about
which it could re-form.

Melanie was young but she had in her all the qualities this
embattled remnant prized, poverty and pride in poverty, uncomplaining
courage, gaiety, hospitality, kindness and, above all, loyalty to
all the old traditions. Melanie refused to change, refused even to
admit that there was any reason to change in a changing world.
Under her roof the old days seemed to come back again and people
took heart and felt even more contemptuous of the tide of wild life
and high living that was sweeping the Carpetbaggers and newly rich
Republicans along.

When they looked into her young face and saw there the inflexible
loyalty to the old days, they could forget, for a moment, the
traitors within their own class who were causing fury, fear and
heartbreak. And there were many such. There were men of good
family, driven to desperation by poverty, who had gone over to the
enemy, become Republicans and accepted positions from the
conquerors, so their families would not be on charity. There were
young ex-soldiers who lacked the courage to face the long years
necessary to build up fortunes. These youngsters, following the
lead of Rhett Butler, went hand in hand with the Carpetbaggers in
money-making schemes of unsavory kinds.

Worst of all the traitors were the daughters of some of Atlanta's
most prominent families. These girls who had come to maturity
since the surrender had only childish memories of the war and
lacked the bitterness that animated their elders. They had lost no
husbands, no lovers. They had few recollections of past wealth and
splendor--and the Yankee officers were so handsome and finely
dressed and so carefree. And they gave such splendid balls and
drove such fine horses and simply worshiped Southern girls! They
treated them like queens and were so careful not to injure their
touchy pride and, after all--why not associate with them?

They were so much more attractive than the town swains who dressed
so shabbily and were so serious and worked so hard that they had
little time to play. So there had been a number of elopements with
Yankee officers which broke the hearts of Atlanta families. There
were brothers who passed sisters on the streets and did not speak
and mothers and fathers who never mentioned daughters' names.
Remembering these tragedies, a cold dread ran in the veins of those
whose motto was "No surrender"--a dread which the very sight of
Melanie's soft but unyielding face dispelled. She was, as the
dowagers said, such an excellent and wholesome example to the young
girls of the town. And, because she made no parade of her virtues
the young girls did not resent her.

It never occurred to Melanie that she was becoming the leader of a
new society. She only thought the people were nice to come to see
her and to want her in their little sewing circles, cotillion clubs
and musical societies. Atlanta had always been musical and loved
good music, despite the sneering comments of sister cities of the
South concerning the town's lack of culture, and there was now an
enthusiastic resurrection of interest that grew stronger as the
times grew harder and more tense. It was easier to forget the
impudent black faces in the streets and the blue uniforms of the
garrison while they were listening to music.

Melanie was a little embarrassed to find herself at the head of the
newly formed Saturday Night Musical Circle. She could not account
for her elevation to this position except by the fact that she
could accompany anyone on the piano, even the Misses McLure who
were tone deaf but who would sing duets.

The truth of the matter was that Melanie had diplomatically managed
to amalgamate the Lady Harpists, the Gentlemen's Glee Club and the
Young Ladies Mandolin and Guitar Society with the Saturday Night
Musical Circle, so that now Atlanta had music worth listening to.
In fact, the Circle's rendition of The Bohemian Girl was said by
many to be far superior to professional performances heard in New
York and New Orleans. It was after she had maneuvered the Lady
Harpists into the fold that Mrs. Merriwether said to Mrs. Meade and
Mrs. Whiting that they must have Melanie at the head of the Circle.
If she could get on with the Harpists, she could get on with
anyone, Mrs. Merriwether declared. That lady herself played the
organ for the choir at the Methodist Church and, as an organist,
had scant respect for harps or harpists.

Melanie had also been made secretary for both the Association for
the Beautification of the Graves of Our Glorious Dead and the
Sewing Circle for the Widows and Orphans of the Confederacy. This
new honor came to her after an exciting joint meeting of those
societies which threatened to end in violence and the severance of
lifelong ties of friendship. The question had arisen at the
meeting as to whether or not weeds should be removed from the
graves of the Union soldiers near those of Confederate soldiers.
The appearance of the scraggly Yankee mounds defeated all the
efforts of the ladies to beautify those of their own dead.
Immediately the fires which smoldered beneath tight basques flamed
wildly and the two organizations split up and glared hostilely.
The Sewing Circle was in favor of the removal of the weeds, the
Ladies of the Beautification were violently opposed.

Mrs. Meade expressed the views of the latter group when she said:
"Dig up the weeds off Yankee graves? For two cents, I'd dig up all
the Yankees and throw them in the city dump!"

At these ringing words the two associations arose and every lady
spoke her mind and no one listened. The meeting was being held in
Mrs. Merriwether's parlor and Grandpa Merriwether, who had been
banished to the kitchen, reported afterwards that the noise sounded
just like the opening guns of the battle of Franklin. And, he
added, be guessed it was a dinged sight safer to be present at the
battle of Franklin than at the ladies' meeting.

Somehow Melanie made her way to the center of the excited throng
and somehow made her usually soft voice heard above the tumult.
Her heart was in her throat with fright at daring to address the
indignant gathering and her voice shook but she kept crying:
"Ladies! Please!" till the din died down.

"I want to say--I mean, I've thought for a long time that--that not
only should we pull up the weeds but we should plant flowers on--
I--I don't care what you think but every time I go to take flowers
to dear Charlie's grave, I always put some on the grave of an
unknown Yankee which is near by. It--it looks so forlorn!"

The excitement broke out again in louder words and this time the
two organizations merged and spoke as one.

"On Yankee graves! Oh, Melly, how could you!" "And they killed
Charlie!" "They almost killed you!" "Why, the Yankees might have
killed Beau when he was born!" "They tried to burn you out of
Tara!"

Melanie held onto the back of her chair for support, almost
crumpling beneath the weight of a disapproval she had never known
before.

"Oh, ladies!" she cried, pleading. "Please, let me finish! I know
I haven't the right to speak on this matter, for none of my loved
ones were killed except Charlie, and I know where he lies, thank
God! But there are so many among us today who do not know where
their sons and husbands and brothers are buried and--"

She choked and there was a dead silence in the room.

Mrs. Meade's flaming eyes went somber. She had made the long trip
to Gettysburg after the battle to bring back Darcy's body but no
one had been able to tell her where he was buried. Somewhere in
some hastily dug trench in the enemy's country. And Mrs. Allan's
mouth quivered. Her husband and brother had been on that ill-
starred raid Morgan made into Ohio and the last information she had
of them was that they fell on the banks of the river, just as the
Yankee cavalry stormed up. She did not know where they lay. Mrs.
Allison's son had died in a Northern prison camp and she, the
poorest of the poor, was unable to bring his body home. There were
others who had read on casualty lists: "Missing--believed dead,"
and in those words had learned the last news they were ever to
learn of men they had seen march away.

They turned to Melanie with eyes that said: "Why do you open these
wounds again? These are the wounds that never heal--the wounds of
not knowing where they lie."

Melanie's voice gathered strength in the stillness of the room.

"Their graves are somewhere up in the Yankees' country, just like
the Yankee graves are here, and oh, how awful it would be to know
that some Yankee woman said to dig them up and--"

Mrs. Meade made a small, dreadful sound.

"But how nice it would be to know that some good Yankee woman--
And there must be SOME good Yankee women. I don't care what people
say, they can't all be bad! How nice it would be to know that they
pulled weeds off our men's graves and brought flowers to them, even
if they were enemies. If Charlie were dead in the North it would
comfort me to know that someone-- And I don't care what you ladies
think of me," her voice broke again, "I will withdraw from both
clubs and I'll--I'll pull up every weed off every Yankee's grave I
can find and I'll plant flowers, too--and--I just dare anyone to
stop me!"

With this final defiance Melanie burst into tears and tried to make
her stumbling way to the door.

Grandpa Merriwether, safe in the masculine confines of the Girl of
the Period Saloon an hour later, reported to Uncle Henry Hamilton
that after these words, everybody cried and embraced Melanie and it
all ended up in a love feast and Melanie was made secretary of both
organizations.

"And they are going to pull up the weeds. The hell of it is Dolly
said I'd be only too pleased to help do it, 'cause I didn't have
anything much else to do. I got nothing against the Yankees and I
think Miss Melly was right and the rest of those lady wild cats
wrong. But the idea of me pulling weeds at my time of life and
with my lumbago!"

Melanie was on the board of lady managers of the Orphans' Home and
assisted in the collection of books for the newly formed Young
Men's Library Association. Even the Thespians who gave amateur
plays once a month clamored for her. She was too timid to appear
behind the kerosene-lamp footlights, but she could make costumes
out of croker sacks if they were the only material available. It
was she who cast the deciding vote at the Shakespeare Reading
Circle that the bard's works should be varied with those of Mr.
Dickens and Mr. Bulwer-Lytton and not the poems of Lord Byron, as
had been suggested by a young and, Melanie privately feared, very
fast bachelor member of the Circle.

In the nights of the late summer her small, feebly lighted house
was always full of guests. There were never enough chairs to go
around and frequently ladies sat on the steps of the front porch
with men grouped about them on the banisters, on packing boxes or
on the lawn below. Sometimes when Scarlett saw guests sitting on
the grass, sipping tea, the only refreshment the Wilkeses could
afford, she wondered how Melanie could bring herself to expose her
poverty so shamelessly. Until Scarlett was able to furnish Aunt
Pitty's house as it had been before the war and serve her guests
good wine and juleps and baked ham and cold haunches of venison,
she had no intention of having guests in her house--especially
prominent guests, such as Melanie had.

General John B. Gordon, Georgia's great hero, was frequently there
with his family. Father Ryan, the poet-priest of the Confederacy,
never failed to call when passing through Atlanta. He charmed
gatherings there with his wit and seldom needed much urging to
recite his "Sword of Lee" or his deathless "Conquered Banner,"
which never failed to make the ladies cry. Alex Stephens, late
Vice-President of the Confederacy, visited whenever in town and,
when the word went about that he was at Melanie's, the house was
filled and people sat for hours under the spell of the frail
invalid with the ringing voice. Usually there were a dozen
children present, nodding sleepily in their parents' arms, up hours
after their normal bedtime. No family wanted its children to miss
being able to say in after years that they had been kissed by the
great Vice-President or had shaken the hand that helped to guide
the Cause. Every person of importance who came to town found his
way to the Wilkes home and often they spent the night there. It
crowded the little flat-topped house, forced India to sleep on a
pallet in the cubbyhole that was Beau's nursery and sent Dilcey
speeding through the back hedge to borrow breakfast eggs from Aunt
Pitty's Cookie, but Melanie entertained them as graciously as if
hers was a mansion.

No, it did not occur to Melanie that people rallied round her as
round a worn and loved standard. And so she was both astounded and
embarrassed when Dr. Meade, after a pleasant evening at her house
where he acquitted himself nobly in reading the part of Macbeth,
kissed her hand and made observations in the voice he once used in
speaking of Our Glorious Cause.

"My dear Miss Melly, it is always a privilege and a pleasure to be
in your home, for you--and ladies like you--are the hearts of all
of us, all that we have left. They have taken the flower of our
manhood and the laughter of our young women. They have broken our
health, uprooted our lives and unsettled our habits. They have
ruined our prosperity, set us back fifty years and placed too heavy
a burden on the shoulders of our boys who should be in school and
our old men who should be sleeping in the sun. But we will build
back, because we have hearts like yours to build upon. And as long
as we have them, the Yankees can have the rest!"



Until Scarlett's figure reached such proportions that even Aunt
Pitty's big black shawl did not conceal her condition, she and
Frank frequently slipped through the back hedge to join the summer-
night gatherings on Melanie's porch. Scarlett always sat well out
of the light, hidden in the protecting shadows where she was not
only inconspicuous but could, unobserved, watch Ashley's face to
her heart's content.

It was only Ashley who drew her to the house, for the conversations
bored and saddened her. They always followed a set pattern--first,
hard times; next, the political situation; and then, inevitably,
the war. The ladies bewailed the high prices of everything and
asked the gentlemen if they thought good times would ever come
back. And the omniscient gentlemen always said, indeed they would.
Merely a matter of time. Hard times were just temporary. The
ladies knew the gentlemen were lying and the gentlemen knew the
ladies knew they were lying. But they lied cheerfully just the
same and the ladies pretended to believe them. Everyone knew hard
times were here to stay.

Once the hard times were disposed of, the ladies spoke of the
increasing impudence of the negroes and the outrages of the
Carpetbaggers and the humiliation of having the Yankee soldiers
loafing on every corner. Did the gentlemen think the Yankees would
ever get through with reconstructing Georgia? The reassuring
gentlemen thought Reconstruction would be over in no time--that is,
just as soon as the Democrats could vote again. The ladies were
considerate enough not to ask when this would be. And having
finished with politics, the talk about the war began.

Whenever two former Confederates met anywhere, there was never but
one topic of conversation, and where a dozen or more gathered
together, it was a foregone conclusion that the war would be
spiritedly refought. And always the word "if" had the most
prominent part in the talk.

"If England had recognized us--" "If Jeff Davis had commandeered
all the cotton and gotten it to England before the blockade
tightened--" "If Longstreet had obeyed orders at Gettysburg--"
"If Jeb Stuart hadn't been away on that raid when Marse Bob needed
him--" "If we hadn't lost Stonewall Jackson--" "If Vicksburg
hadn't fallen--" "If we could have held on another year--" And
always: "If they hadn't replaced Johnston with Hood--" or "If
they'd put Hood in command at Dalton instead of Johnston--"

If! If! The soft drawling voices quickened with an old excitement
as they talked in the quiet darkness--infantryman, cavalryman,
cannoneer, evoking memories of the days when life was ever at high
tide, recalling the fierce heat of their midsummer in this forlorn
sunset of their winter.

"They don't talk of anything else," thought Scarlett. "Nothing but
the war. Always the war. And they'll never talk of anything but
the war. No, not until they die."

She looked about, seeing little boys lying in the crooks of their
fathers' arms, breath coming fast, eyes glowing, as they heard of
midnight stories and wild cavalry dashes and flags planted on enemy
breastworks. They were hearing drums and bugles and the Rebel
yell, seeing footsore men going by in the rain with torn flags
slanting.

"And these children will never talk of anything else either.
They'll think it was wonderful and glorious to fight the Yankees
and come home blind and crippled--or not come home at all. They
all like to remember the war, to talk about it. But I don't. I
don't even like to think about it. I'd forget it all if I could--
oh, if I only could!"

She listened with flesh crawling as Melanie told tales of Tara,
making Scarlett a heroine as she faced the invaders and saved
Charles' sword, bragging how Scarlett had put out the fire.
Scarlett took no pleasure or pride in the memory of these things.
She did not want to think of them at all.

"Oh, why can't they forget? Why can't they look forward and not
back? We were fools to fight that war. And the sooner we forget
it, the better we'll be."

But no one wanted to forget, no one, it seemed, except herself,
so Scarlett was glad when she could truthfully tell Melanie that
she was embarrassed at appearing, even in the darkness. This
explanation was readily understood by Melanie who was hypersensitive
about all matters relating to childbirth. Melanie wanted another
baby badly, but both Dr. Meade and Dr. Fontaine had said another
child would cost her her life. So, only half resigned to her fate,
she spent most of her time with Scarlett, vicariously enjoying a
pregnancy not her own. To Scarlett, scarcely wanting her coming
child and irritated at its untimeliness, this attitude seemed the
height of sentimental stupidity. But she had a guilty sense of
pleasure that the doctors' edict had made impossible any real
intimacy between Ashley and his wife.

Scarlett saw Ashley frequently now but she never saw him alone. He
came by the house every night on his way home from the mill to
report on the day's work, but Frank and Pitty were usually present
or, worse still, Melanie and India. She could only ask
businesslike questions and make suggestions and then say: "It was
nice of you to come by. Good night."

If only she wasn't having a baby! Here was a God-given opportunity
to ride out to the mill with him every morning, through the lonely
woods, far from prying eyes, where they could imagine themselves
back in the County again in the unhurried days before the war.

No, she wouldn't try to make him say one word of love! She
wouldn't refer to love in any way. She'd sworn an oath to herself
that she would never do that again. But, perhaps if she were alone
with him once more, he might drop that mask of impersonal courtesy
he had worn since coming to Atlanta. Perhaps he might be his old
self again, be the Ashley she had known before the barbecue, before
any word of love had been spoken between them. If they could not
be lovers, they could be friends again and she could warm her cold
and lonely heart in the glow of his friendship.

"If only I could get this baby over and done with," she thought
impatiently, "then I could ride with him every day and we could
talk--"

It was not only the desire to be with him that made her writhe with
helpless impatience at her confinement. The mills needed her. The
mills had been losing money ever since she retired from active
supervision, leaving Hugh and Ashley in charge.

Hugh was so incompetent, for all that he tried so hard. He was a
poor trader and a poorer boss of labor. Anyone could Jew him down
on prices. If any slick contractor chose to say that the lumber
was of an inferior grade and not worth the price asked, Hugh felt
that all a gentleman could do was to apologize and take a lower
price. When she heard of the price he received for a thousand feet
of flooring, she burst into angry tears. The best grade of
flooring the mill had ever turned out and he had practically given
it away! And he couldn't manage his labor crews. The negroes
insisted on being paid every day and they frequently got drunk on
their wages and did not turn up for work the next morning. On
these occasions Hugh was forced to hunt up new workmen and the mill
was late in starting. With these difficulties Hugh didn't get into
town to sell the lumber for days on end.

Seeing the profits slip from Hugh's fingers, Scarlett became
frenzied at her impotence and his stupidity. Just as soon as the
baby was born and she could go back to work, she would get rid of
Hugh and hire some one else. Anyone would do better. And she
would never fool with free niggers again. How could anyone get any
work done with free niggers quitting all the time?

"Frank," she said, after a stormy interview with Hugh over his
missing workmen, "I've about made up my mind that I'll lease
convicts to work the mills. A while back I was talking to Johnnie
Gallegher, Tommy Wellburn's foreman, about the trouble we were
having getting any work out of the darkies and he asked me why I
didn't get convicts. It sounds like a good idea to me. He said I
could sublease them for next to nothing and feed them dirt cheap.
And he said I could get work out of them in any way I liked,
without having the Freedman's Bureau swarming down on me like
hornets, sticking their bills into things that aren't any of their
business. And just as soon as Johnnie Gallegher's contract with
Tommy is up, I'm going to hire him to run Hugh's mill. Any man who
can get work out of that bunch of wild Irish he bosses can
certainly get plenty of work out of convicts."

Convicts! Frank was speechless. Leasing convicts was the very
worst of all the wild schemes Scarlett had ever suggested, worse
even than her notion of building a saloon.

At least, it seemed worse to Frank and the conservative circles in
which he moved. This new system of leasing convicts had come into
being because of the poverty of the state after the war. Unable to
support the convicts, the State was hiring them out to those
needing large labor crews in the building of railroads, in
turpentine forests and lumber camps. While Frank and his quiet
churchgoing friends realized the necessity of the system, they
deplored it just the same. Many of them had not even believed in
slavery and they thought this was far worse than slavery had ever
been.

And Scarlett wanted to lease convicts! Frank knew that if she did
he could never hold up his head again. This was far worse than
owning and operating the mills herself, or anything else she had
done. His past objections had always been coupled with the
question: "What will people say?" But this--this went deeper than
fear of public opinion. He felt that it was a traffic in human
bodies on a par with prostitution, a sin that would be on his soul
if he permitted her to do it.

From this conviction of wrongness, Frank gathered courage to forbid
Scarlett to do such a thing, and so strong were his remarks that
she, startled, relapsed into silence. Finally to quiet him, she
said meekly she hadn't really meant it. She was just so outdone
with Hugh and the free niggers she had lost her temper. Secretly,
she still thought about it and with some longing. Convict labor
would settle one of her hardest problems, but if Frank was going to
take on so about it--

She sighed. If even one of the mills were making money, she could
stand it. But Ashley was faring little better with his mill than
Hugh.

At first Scarlett was shocked and disappointed that Ashley did not
immediately take hold and make the mill pay double what it had paid
under her management. He was so smart and he had read so many
books and there was no reason at all why he should not make a
brilliant success and lots of money. But he was no more successful
than Hugh. His inexperience, his errors, his utter lack of
business judgment and his scruples about close dealing were the
same as Hugh's.

Scarlett's love hastily found excuses for him and she did not
consider the two men in the same light. Hugh was just hopelessly
stupid, while Ashley was merely new at the business. Still,
unbidden, came the thought that Ashley could never make a quick
estimate in his head and give a price that was correct, as she
could. And she sometimes wondered if he'd ever learn to
distinguish between planking and sills. And because he was a
gentleman and himself trustworthy, he trusted every scoundrel who
came along and several times would have lost money for her if she
had not tactfully intervened. And if he liked a person--and he
seemed to like so many people!--he sold them lumber on credit
without ever thinking to find out if they had money in the bank or
property. He was as bad as Frank in that respect.

But surely he would learn! And while he was learning she had a
fond and maternal indulgence and patience for his errors. Every
evening when he called at her house, weary and discouraged, she was
tireless in her tactful, helpful suggestions. But for all her
encouragement and cheer, there was a queer dead look in his eyes.
She could not understand it and it frightened her. He was
different, so different from the man he used to be. If only she
could see him alone, perhaps she could discover the reason.

The situation gave her many sleepless nights. She worried about
Ashley, both because she knew he was unhappy and because she knew
his unhappiness wasn't helping him to become a good lumber dealer.
It was a torture to have her mills in the hands of two men with no
more business sense than Hugh and Ashley, heartbreaking to see her
competitors taking her best customers away when she had worked so
hard and planned so carefully for these helpless months. Oh, if
she could only get back to work again! She would take Ashley in
hand and then he would certainly learn. And Johnnie Gallegher
could run the other mill, and she could handle the selling, and
then everything would be fine. As for Hugh, he could drive a
delivery wagon if he still wanted to work for her. That was all he
was good for.

Of course, Gallegher looked like an unscrupulous man, for all of
his smartness, but--who else could she get? Why had the other men
who were both smart and honest been so perverse about working for
her? If she only had one of them working for her now in place of
Hugh, she wouldn't have to worry so much, but--

Tommy Wellburn, in spite of his crippled back, was the busiest
contractor in town and coining money, so people said. Mrs.
Merriwether and Rene were prospering and now had opened a bakery
downtown. Rene was managing it with true French thrift and Grandpa
Merriwether, glad to escape from his chimney corner, was driving
Rene's pie wagon. The Simmons boys were so busy they were
operating their brick kiln with three shifts of labor a day. And
Kells Whiting was cleaning up money with his hair straightener,
because he told the negroes they wouldn't ever be permitted to vote
the Republican ticket if they had kinky hair.

It was the same with all the smart young men she knew, the doctors,
the lawyers, the storekeepers. The apathy which had clutched them
immediately after the war had completely disappeared and they were
too busy building their own fortunes to help her build hers. The
ones who were not busy were the men of Hugh's type--or Ashley's.

What a mess it was to try to run a business and have a baby too!

"I'll never have another one," she decided firmly. "I'm not going
to be like other women and have a baby every year. Good Lord, that
would mean six months out of the year when I'd have to be away from
the mills! And I see now I can't afford to be away from them even
one day. I shall simply tell Frank that I won't have any more
children."

Frank wanted a big family, but she could manage Frank somehow. Her
mind was made up. This was her last child. The mills were far
more important.



CHAPTER XLII


Scarlett's child was a girl, a small bald-headed mite, ugly as a
hairless monkey and absurdly like Frank. No one except the doting
father could see anything beautiful about her, but the neighbors
were charitable enough to say that all ugly babies turned out
pretty, eventually. She was named Ella Lorena, Ella for her
grandmother Ellen, and Lorena because it was the most fashionable
name of the day for girls, even as Robert E. Lee and Stonewall
Jackson were popular for boys and Abraham Lincoln and Emancipation
for negro children.

She was born in the middle of a week when frenzied excitement
gripped Atlanta and the air was tense with expectation of disaster.
A negro who had boasted of rape had actually been arrested, but
before he could be brought to trial the jail had been raided by the
Ku Klux Klan and he had been quietly hanged. The Klan had acted to
save the as yet unnamed victim from having to testify in open
court. Rather than have her appear and advertise her shame, her
father and brother would have shot her, so lynching the negro
seemed a sensible solution to the townspeople, in fact, the only
decent solution possible. But the military authorities were in a
fury. They saw no reason why the girl should mind testifying
publicly.

The soldiers made arrests right and left, swearing to wipe out the
Klan if they had to put every white man in Atlanta in jail. The
negroes, frightened and sullen, muttered of retaliatory house
burnings. The air was thick with rumors of wholesale hangings by
the Yankees should the guilty parties be found and of a concerted
uprising against the whites by the negroes. The people of the town
stayed at home behind locked doors and shuttered windows, the men
fearing to go to their businesses and leave their women and
children unprotected.

Scarlett, lying exhausted in bed, feebly and silently thanked God
that Ashley had too much sense to belong to the Klan and Frank was
too old and poor spirited. How dreadful it would be to know that
the Yankees might swoop down and arrest them at any minute! Why
didn't the crack-brained young fools in the Klan leave bad enough
alone and not stir up the Yankees like this? Probably the girl
hadn't been raped after all. Probably she'd just been frightened
silly and, because of her, a lot of men might lose their lives.

In this atmosphere, as nerve straining as watching a slow fuse burn
toward a barrel of gunpowder, Scarlett came rapidly back to
strength. The healthy vigor which had carried her through the hard
days at Tara stood her in good stead now, and within two weeks of
Ella Lorena's birth she was strong enough to sit up and chafe at
her inactivity. In three weeks she was up, declaring she had to
see to the mills. They were standing idle because both Hugh and
Ashley feared to leave their families alone all day.

Then the blow fell.

Frank, full of the pride of new fatherhood, summoned up courage
enough to forbid Scarlett leaving the house while conditions were
so dangerous. His commands would not have worried her at all and
she would have gone about her business in spite of them, if he had
not put her horse and buggy in the livery stable and ordered that
they should not be surrendered to anyone except himself. To make
matters worse, he and Mammy had patiently searched the house while
she was ill and unearthed her hidden store of money. And Frank had
deposited it in the bank in his own name, so now she could not even
hire a rig.

Scarlett raged at both Frank and Mammy, then was reduced to begging
and finally cried all one morning like a furious thwarted child.
But for all her pains she heard only: "There, Sugar! You're just
a sick little girl." And: "Miss Scarlett, ef you doan quit
cahyin' on so, you gwine sour yo' milk an' de baby have colic, sho
as gun's iron."

In a furious temper, Scarlett charged through her back yard to
Melanie's house and there unburdened herself at the top of her
voice, declaring she would walk to the mills, she would go about
Atlanta telling everyone what a varmint she had married, she would
not be treated like a naughty simple-minded child. She would carry
a pistol and shoot anyone who threatened her. She had shot one man
and she would love, yes, love to shoot another. She would--

Melanie who feared to venture onto her own front porch was appalled
by such threats.

"Oh, you must not risk yourself! I should die if anything happened
to you! Oh, please--"

"I will! I will! I will walk--"

Melanie looked at her and saw that this was not the hysteria of a
woman still weak from childbirth. There was the same breakneck,
headlong determination in Scarlett's face that Melanie had often
seen in Gerald O'Hara's face when his mind was made up. She put
her arms around Scarlett's waist and held her tightly.

"It's all my fault for not being brave like you and for keeping
Ashley at home with me all this time when he should have been at
the mill. Oh, dear! I'm such a ninny! Darling, I'll tell Ashley
I'm not a bit frightened and I'll come over and stay with you and
Aunt Pitty and he can go back to work and--"

Not even to herself would Scarlett admit that she did not think
Ashley could cope with the situation alone and she shouted:
"You'll do nothing of the kind! What earthly good would Ashley do
at work if he was worried about you every minute? Everybody is
just so hateful! Even Uncle Peter refuses to go out with me! But
I don't care! I'll go alone. I'll walk every step of the way and
pick up a crew of darkies somewhere--"

"Oh, no! You mustn't do that! Something dreadful might happen to
you. They say that Shantytown settlement on the Decatur road is
just full of mean darkies and you'd have to pass right by it. Let
me think-- Darling, promise me you won't do anything today and
I'll think of something. Promise me you'll go home and lie down.
You look right peaked. Promise me."

Because she was too exhausted by her anger to do otherwise,
Scarlett sulkily promised and went home, haughtily refusing any
overtures of peace from her household.

That afternoon a strange figure stumped through Melanie's hedge and
across Pitty's back yard. Obviously, he was one of those men whom
Mammy and Dilcey referred to as "de riff-raff whut Miss Melly pick
up off de streets an' let sleep in her cellar."

There were three rooms in the basement of Melanie's house which
formerly had been servants' quarters and a wine room. Now Dilcey
occupied one, and the other two were in constant use by a stream of
miserable and ragged transients. No one but Melanie knew whence
they came or where they were going and no one but she knew where
she collected them. Perhaps the negroes were right and she did
pick them up from the streets. But even as the great and the near
great gravitated to her small parlor, so unfortunates found their
way to her cellar where they were fed, bedded and sent on their way
with packages of food. Usually the occupants of the rooms were
former Confederate soldiers of the rougher, illiterate type,
homeless men, men without families, beating their way about the
country in hope of finding work.

Frequently, brown and withered country women with broods of tow-
haired silent children spent the night there, women widowed by the
war, dispossessed of their farms, seeking relatives who were
scattered and lost. Sometimes the neighborhood was scandalized by
the presence of foreigners, speaking little or no English, who had
been drawn South by glowing tales of fortunes easily made. Once a
Republican had slept there. At least, Mammy insisted he was a
Republican, saying she could smell a Republican, same as a horse
could smell a rattlesnake; but no one believed Mammy's story, for
there must be some limit even to Melanie's charity. At least
everyone hoped so.

Yes, thought Scarlett, sitting on the side porch in the pale
November sunshine with the baby on her lap, he is one of Melanie's
lame dogs. And he's really lame, at that!

The man who was making his way across the back yard stumped, like
Will Benteen, on a wooden leg. He was a tall, thin old man with a
bald head, which shone pinkishly dirty, and a grizzled beard so
long he could tuck it in his belt. He was over sixty, to judge by
his hard, seamed face, but there was no sag of age to his body. He
was lank and ungainly but, even with his wooden peg, he moved as
swiftly as a snake.

He mounted the steps and came toward her and, even before he spoke,
revealing in his tones a twang and a burring of "r s" unusual in
the lowlands, Scarlett knew that he was mountain born. For all his
dirty, ragged clothes there was about him, as about most
mountaineers, an air of fierce silent pride that permitted no
liberties and tolerated no foolishness. His beard was stained with
tobacco juice and a large wad in his jaw made his face look
deformed. His nose was thin and craggy, his eyebrows bushy and
twisted into witches' locks and a lush growth of hair sprang from
his ears, giving them the tufted look of a lynx's ears. Beneath
his brow was one hollow socket from which a scar ran down his
cheek, carving a diagonal line through his beard. The other eye
was small, pale and cold, an unwinking and remorseless eye. There
was a heavy pistol openly in his trouser band and from the top of
his tattered boot protruded the hilt of a bowie knife.

He returned Scarlett's stare coldly and spat across the rail of the
banister before he spoke. There was contempt in his one eye, not a
personal contempt for her, but for her whole sex.

"Miz Wilkes sont me to work for you," he said shortly. He spoke
rustily, as one unaccustomed to speaking, the words coming slowly
and almost with difficulty. "M' name's Archie."

"I'm sorry but I have no work for you, Mr. Archie."

"Archie's m'fuss name."

"I beg your pardon. What is your last name?"

He spat again. "I reckon that's my bizness," he said. "Archie'll
do."

"I don't care what your last name is! I have nothing for you to
do."

"I reckon you have. Miz Wilkes was upsot about yore wantin' to run
aroun' like a fool by yoreself and she sont me over here to drive
aroun' with you."

"Indeed?" cried Scarlett, indignant both at the man's rudeness and
Melly's meddling.

His one eye met hers with an impersonal animosity. "Yes. A
woman's got no bizness botherin' her men folks when they're tryin'
to take keer of her. If you're bound to gad about, I'll drive you.
I hates niggers--Yankees too."

He shifted his wad of tobacco to the other cheek and, without
waiting for an invitation, sat down on the top step. "I ain't
sayin' I like drivin' women aroun', but Miz Wilkes been good to me,
lettin' me sleep in her cellar, and she sont me to drive you."

"But--" began Scarlett helplessly and then she stopped and looked
at him. After a moment she began to smile. She didn't like the
looks of this elderly desperado but his presence would simplify
matters. With him beside her, she could go to town, drive to the
mills, call on customers. No one could doubt her safety with him
and his very appearance was enough to keep from giving rise to
scandal.

"It's a bargain," she said. "That is, if my husband agrees."

After a private conversation with Archie, Frank gave his reluctant
approval and sent word to the livery stable to release the horse
and buggy. He was hurt and disappointed that motherhood had not
changed Scarlett as he had hoped it would but, if she was
determined to go back to her damnable mills, then Archie was a
godsend.

So began the relationship that at first startled Atlanta. Archie
and Scarlett were a queerly assorted pair, the truculent dirty old
man with his wooden peg sticking stiffly out over the dashboard and
the pretty, neatly dressed young woman with forehead puckered in an
abstracted frown. They could be seen at all hours and at all
places in and near Atlanta, seldom speaking to each other,
obviously disliking each other, but bound together by mutual need,
he of money, she of protection. At least, said the ladies of the
town, it's better than riding around so brazenly with that Butler
man. They wondered curiously where Rhett was these days, for he
had abruptly left town three months before and no one, not even
Scarlett, knew where he was.

Archie was a silent man, never speaking unless spoken to and
usually answering with grunts. Every morning he came from
Melanie's cellar and sat on the front steps of Pitty's house,
chewing and spitting until Scarlett came out and Peter brought the
buggy from the stable. Uncle Peter feared him only a little less
than the devil or the Ku Klux and even Mammy walked silently and
timorously around him. He hated negroes and they knew it and
feared him. He reinforced his pistol and knife with another
pistol, and his fame spread far among the black population. He
never once had to draw a pistol or even lay his hand on his belt.
The moral effect was sufficient. No negro dared even laugh while
Archie was in hearing.

Once Scarlett asked him curiously why he hated negroes and was
surprised when he answered, for generally all questions were
answered by "I reckon that's my bizness."

"I hates them, like all mountain folks hates them. We never liked
them and we never owned none. It was them niggers that started the
war. I hates them for that, too."

"But you fought in the war."

"I reckon that's a man's privilege. I hates Yankees too, more'n I
hates niggers. Most as much as I hates talkative women."

It was such outspoken rudeness as this that threw Scarlett into
silent furies and made her long to be rid of him. But how could
she do without him? In what other way could she obtain such
freedom? He was rude and dirty and, occasionally, very odorous but
he served his purpose. He drove her to and from the mills and on
her round of customers, spitting and staring off into space while
she talked and gave orders. If she climbed down from the buggy, he
climbed after her and dogged her footsteps. When she was among
rough laborers, negroes or Yankee soldiers, he was seldom more than
a pace from her elbow.

Soon Atlanta became accustomed to seeing Scarlett and her bodyguard
and, from being accustomed, the ladies grew to envy her her freedom
of movement. Since the Ku Klux lynching, the ladies had been
practically immured, not even going to town to shop unless there
were half a dozen in their group. Naturally social minded, they
became restless and, putting their pride in their pockets, they
began to beg the loan of Archie from Scarlett. And whenever she
did not need him, she was gracious enough to spare him for the use
of other ladies.

Soon Archie became an Atlanta institution and the ladies competed
for his free time. There was seldom a morning when a child or a
negro servant did not arrive at breakfast time with a note saying:
"If you aren't using Archie this afternoon, do let me have him. I
want to drive to the cemetery with flowers." "I must go to the
milliners." "I should like Archie to drive Aunt Nelly for an
airing." "I must go calling on Peters Street and Grandpa is not
feeling well enough to take me. Could Archie--"

He drove them all, maids, matrons and widows, and toward all he
evidenced the same uncompromising contempt. It was obvious that he
did not like women, Melanie excepted, any better than he liked
negroes and Yankees. Shocked at first by his rudeness, the ladies
finally became accustomed to him and, as he was so silent, except
for intermittent explosions of tobacco juice, they took him as much
for granted as the horses he drove and forgot his very existence.
In fact, Mrs. Merriwether related to Mrs. Meade the complete
details of her niece's confinement before she even remembered
Archie's presence on the front seat of the carriage.

At no other time than this could such a situation have been
possible. Before the war, he would not have been permitted even in
the ladies' kitchens. They would have handed him food through the
back door and sent him about his business. But now they welcomed
his reassuring presence. Rude, illiterate, dirty, he was a bulwark
between the ladies and the terrors of Reconstruction. He was
neither friend nor servant. He was a hired bodyguard, protecting
the women while their men worked by day or were absent from home at
night.

It seemed to Scarlett that after Archie came to work for her Frank
was away at night very frequently. He said the books at the store
had to be balanced and business was brisk enough now to give him
little time to attend to this in working hours. And there were
sick friends with whom he had to sit. Then there was the
organization of Democrats who forgathered every Wednesday night to
devise ways of regaining the ballot and Frank never missed a
meeting. Scarlett thought this organization did little else except
argue the merits of General John B. Gordon over every other
general, except General Lee, and refight the war. Certainly she
could observe no progress in the direction of the recovery of the
ballot. But Frank evidently enjoyed the meetings for he stayed out
until all hours on those nights.

Ashley also sat up with the sick and he, too, attended the
Democratic meetings and he was usually away on the same nights as
Frank. On these nights, Archie escorted Pitty, Scarlett, Wade and
little Ella though the back yard to Melanie's house and the two
families spent the evenings together. The ladies sewed while
Archie lay full length on the parlor sofa snoring, his gray
whiskers fluttering at each rumble. No one had invited him to
dispose himself on the sofa and as it was the finest piece of
furniture in the house, the ladies secretly moaned every time he
lay down on it, planting his boot on the pretty upholstery. But
none of them had the courage to remonstrate with him. Especially
after he remarked that it was lucky he went to sleep easy, for
otherwise the sound of women clattering like a flock of guinea hens
would certainly drive him crazy.

Scarlett sometimes wondered where Archie had come from and what his
life had been before he came to live in Melly's cellar but she
asked no questions. There was that about his grim one-eyed face
which discouraged curiosity. All she knew was that his voice
bespoke the mountains to the north and that he had been in the army
and had lost both leg and eye shortly before the surrender. It was
words spoken in a fit of anger against Hugh Elsing which brought
out the truth of Archie's past.

One morning, the old man had driven her to Hugh's mill and she had
found it idle, the negroes gone and Hugh sitting despondently under
a tree. His crew had not made their appearance that morning and he
was at a loss as to what to do. Scarlett was in a furious temper
and did not scruple to expend it on Hugh, for she had just received
an order for a large amount of lumber--a rush order at that. She
had used energy and charm and bargaining to get that order and now
the mill was quiet.

"Drive me out to the other mill," she directed Archie. "Yes, I
know it'll take a long time and we won't get any dinner but what am
I paying you for? I'll have to make Mr. Wilkes stop what he's
doing and run me off this lumber. Like as not, his crew won't be
working either. Great balls of fire! I never saw such a
nincompoop as Hugh Elsing! I'm going to get rid of him just as
soon as that Johnnie Gallegher finishes the stores he's building.
What do I care if Gallegher was in the Yankee Army? He'll work. I
never saw a lazy Irishman yet. And I'm through with free issue
darkies. You just can't depend on them. I'm going to get Johnnie
Gallegher and lease me some convicts. He'll get work out of them.
He'll--"

Archie turned to her, his eye malevolent, and when he spoke there
was cold anger in his rusty voice.

"The day you gits convicts is the day I quits you," he said.

Scarlett was startled. "Good heavens! Why?"

"I knows about convict leasin'. I calls it convict murderin'.
Buyin' men like they was mules. Treatin' them worse than mules
ever was treated. Beatin' them, starvin' them, killin' them. And
who cares? The State don't care. It's got the lease money. The
folks that gits the convicts, they don't care. All they want is to
feed them cheap and git all the work they can out of them. Hell,
Ma'm. I never thought much of women and I think less of them now."

"Is it any of your business?"

"I reckon," said Archie laconically and, after a pause, "I was a
convict for nigh on to forty years."

Scarlett gasped, and, for a moment, shrank back against the
cushions. This then was the answer to the riddle of Archie, his
unwillingness to tell his last name or the place of his birth or
any scrap of his past life, the answer to the difficulty with which
he spoke and his cold hatred of the world. Forty years! He must
have gone into prison a young man. Forty years! Why--he must have
been a life prisoner and lifers were--

"Was it--murder?"

"Yes," answered Archie briefly, as he flapped the reins. "M'
wife."

Scarlett's eyelids batted rapidly with fright.

The mouth beneath the beard seemed to move, as if he were smiling
grimly at her fear. "I ain't goin' to kill you, Ma'm, if that's
what's frettin' you. Thar ain't but one reason for killin' a
woman."

"You killed your wife!"

"She was layin' with my brother. He got away. I ain't sorry none
that I kilt her. Loose women ought to be kilt. The law ain't got
no right to put a man in jail for that but I was sont."

"But--how did you get out? Did you escape? Were you pardoned?"

"You might call it a pardon." His thick gray brows writhed
together as though the effort of stringing words together was
difficult.

"'Long in 'sixty-four when Sherman come through, I was at
Milledgeville jail, like I had been for forty years. And the
warden he called all us prisoners together and he says the Yankees
are a-comin' a-burnin' and a-killin'. Now if thar's one thing I
hates worse than a nigger or a woman, it's a Yankee."

"Why? Had you-- Did you ever know any Yankees?"

"No'm. But I'd hearn tell of them. I'd hearn tell they couldn't
never mind their own bizness. I hates folks who can't mind their
own bizness. What was they doin' in Georgia, freein' our niggers
and burnin' our houses and killin' our stock? Well, the warden he
said the army needed more soldiers bad, and any of us who'd jine up
would be free at the end of the war--if we come out alive. But us
lifers--us murderers, the warden he said the army didn't want us.
We was to be sont somewheres else to another jail. But I said to
the warden I ain't like most lifers. I'm just in for killin' my
wife and she needed killin'. And I wants to fight the Yankees.
And the warden he saw my side of it and he slipped me out with the
other prisoners."

He paused and grunted.

"Huh. That was right funny. They put me in jail for killin' and
they let me out with a gun in my hand and a free pardon to do more
killin'. It shore was good to be a free man with a rifle in my
hand again. Us men from Milledgeville did good fightin' and
killin'--and a lot of us was kilt. I never knowed one who
deserted. And when the surrender come, we was free. I lost this
here leg and this here eye. But I ain't sorry."

"Oh," said Scarlett, weakly.

She tried to remember what she had heard about the releasing of the
Milledgeville convicts in that last desperate effort to stem the
tide of Sherman's army. Frank had mentioned it that Christmas of
1864. What had he said? But her memories of that time were too
chaotic. Again she felt the wild terror of those days, heard the
siege guns, saw the line of wagons dripping blood into the red
roads, saw the Home Guard marching off, the little cadets and the
children like Phil Meade and the old men like Uncle Henry and
Grandpa Merriwether. And the convicts had marched out too, to die
in the twilight of the Confederacy, to freeze in the snow and sleet
of that last campaign in Tennessee.

For a brief moment she thought what a fool this old man was, to
fight for a state which had taken forty years from his life.
Georgia had taken his youth and his middle years for a crime that
was no crime to him, yet he had freely given a leg and an eye to
Georgia. The bitter words Rhett had spoken in the early days of
the war came back to her, and she remembered him saying he would
never fight for a society that had made him an outcast. But when
the emergency had arisen he had gone off to fight for that same
society, even as Archie had done. It seemed to her that all
Southern men, high or low, were sentimental fools and cared less
for their hides than for words which had no meaning.

She looked at Archie's gnarled old hands, his two pistols and his
knife, and fear pricked her again. Were there other ex-convicts at
large, like Archie, murderers, desperadoes, thieves, pardoned for
their crimes, in the name of the Confederacy? Why, any stranger on
the street might be a murderer! If Frank ever learned the truth
about Archie, there would be the devil to pay. Or if Aunt Pitty--
but the shock would kill Pitty. And as for Melanie--Scarlett
almost wished she could tell Melanie the truth about Archie. It
would serve her right for picking up trash and foisting it off on
her friends and relatives.

"I'm--I'm glad you told me, Archie. I--I won't tell anyone. It
would be a great shock to Mrs. Wilkes and the other ladies if they
knew."

"Huh. Miz Wilkes knows. I told her the night she fuss let me
sleep in her cellar. You don't think I'd let a nice lady like her
take me into her house not knowin'?"

"Saints preserve us!" cried Scarlet, aghast.

Melanie knew this man was a murderer and a woman murderer at that
and she hadn't ejected him from her house. She had trusted her son
with him and her aunt and sister-in-law and all her friends. And
she, the most timid of females, had not been frightened to be alone
with him in her house.

"Miz Wilkes is right sensible, for a woman. She 'lowed that I was
all right. She 'lowed that a liar allus kept on lyin' and a thief
kept on stealin' but folks don't do more'n one murder in a
lifetime. And she reckoned as how anybody who'd fought for the
Confederacy had wiped out anything bad they'd done. Though I don't
hold that I done nothin' bad, killin' my wife. . . . Yes, Miz
Wilkes is right sensible, for a woman. . . . And I'm tellin' you,
the day you leases convicts is the day I quits you."

Scarlett made no reply but she thought,

"The sooner you quit me the better it will suit me. A murderer!"

How could Melly have been so--so-- Well, there was no word for
Melanie's action in taking in this old ruffian and not telling her
friends he was a jailbird. So service in the army wiped out past
sins! Melanie had that mixed up with baptism! But then Melly was
utterly silly about the Confederacy, its veterans, and anything
pertaining to them. Scarlett silently damned the Yankees and added
another mark on her score against them. They were responsible for
a situation that forced a woman to keep a murderer at her side to
protect her.



Driving home with Archie in the chill twilight, Scarlett saw a
clutter of saddle horses, buggies and wagons outside the Girl of
the Period Saloon. Ashley was sitting on his horse, a strained
alert look on his face; the Simmons boys were leaning from their
buggy, making emphatic gestures; Hugh Elsing, his lock of brown
hair falling in his eyes, was waving his hands. Grandpa
Merriwether's pie wagon was in the center of the tangle and, as she
came closer, Scarlett saw that Tommy Wellburn and Uncle Henry
Hamilton were crowded on the seat with him.

"I wish," thought Scarlett irritably, "that Uncle Henry wouldn't
ride home in that contraption. He ought to be ashamed to be seen
in it. It isn't as though he didn't have a horse of his own. He
just does it so he and Grandpa can go to the saloon together every
night."

As she came abreast the crowd something of their tenseness reached
her, insensitive though she was, and made fear clutch at her heart.

"Oh!" she thought. "I hope no one else has been raped! If the Ku
Klux lynch just one more darky the Yankees will wipe us out!" And
she spoke to Archie. "Pull up. Something's wrong."

"You ain't goin' to stop outside a saloon," said Archie.

"You heard me. Pull up. Good evening, everybody. Ashley--Uncle
Henry--is something wrong? You all look so--"

The crowd turned to her, tipping their hats and smiling, but there
was a driving excitement in their eyes.

"Something's right and something's wrong," barked Uncle Henry.
"Depends on how you look at it. The way I figure is the
legislature couldn't have done different."

The legislature? thought Scarlett in relief. She had little
interest in the legislature, feeling that its doings could hardly
affect her. It was the prospect of the Yankee soldiers on a
rampage again that frightened her.

"What's the legislature been up to now?"

"They've flatly refused to ratify the amendment," said Grandpa
Merriwether and there was pride in his voice. "That'll show the
Yankees."

"And there'll be hell to pay for it--I beg your pardon, Scarlett,"
said Ashley.

"Oh, the amendment?" questioned Scarlett, trying to look intelligent.

Politics were beyond her and she seldom wasted time thinking about
them. There had been a Thirteenth Amendment ratified sometime
before or maybe it had been the Sixteenth Amendment but what
ratification meant she had no idea. Men were always getting
excited about such things. Something of her lack of comprehension
showed in her face and Ashley smiled.

"It's the amendment letting the darkies vote, you know," he
explained. "It was submitted to the legislature and they refused
to ratify it."

"How silly of them! You know the Yankees are going to force it
down our throats!"

"That's what I meant by saying there'd be hell to pay," said
Ashley.

"I'm proud of the legislature, proud of their gumption!" shouted
Uncle Henry. "The Yankees can't force it down our throats if we
won't have it."

"They can and they will." Ashley's voice was calm but there was
worry in his eyes. "And it'll make things just that much harder
for us."

"Oh, Ashley, surely not! Things couldn't be any harder than they
are now!"

"Yes, things can get worse, even worse than they are now. Suppose
we have a darky legislature? A darky governor? Suppose we have a
worse military rule than we now have?"

Scarlett's eyes grew large with fear as some understanding entered
her mind.

"I've been trying to think what would be best for Georgia, best for
all of us." Ashley's face was drawn. "Whether it's wisest to
fight this thing like the legislature has done, rouse the North
against us and bring the whole Yankee Army on us to cram the darky
vote down us, whether we want it or not. Or--swallow our pride as
best we can, submit gracefully and get the whole matter over with
as easily as possible. It will amount to the same thing in the
end. We're helpless. We've got to take the dose they're
determined to give us. Maybe it would be better for us to take it
without kicking."

Scarlett hardly heard his words, certainly their full import went
over her head. She knew that Ashley, as usual, was seeing both
sides of a question. She was seeing only one side--how this slap
in the Yankees' faces might affect her.

"Going to turn Radical and vote the Republican ticket, Ashley?"
jeered Grandpa Merriwether harshly.

There was a tense silence. Scarlett saw Archie's hand make a swift
move toward his pistol and then stop. Archie thought, and
frequently said, that Grandpa was an old bag of wind and Archie had
no intention of letting him insult Miss Melanie's husband, even if
Miss Melanie's husband was talking like a fool.

The perplexity vanished suddenly from Ashley's eyes and hot anger
flared. But before he could speak, Uncle Henry charged Grandpa.

"You God--you blast--I beg your pardon, Scarlett--Grandpa, you
jackass, don't you say that to Ashley!"

"Ashley can take care of himself without you defending him," said
Grandpa coldly. "And he is talking like a Scallawag. Submit,
hell! I beg your pardon, Scarlett."

"I didn't believe in secession," said Ashley and his voice shook
with anger. "But when Georgia seceded, I went with her. And I
didn't believe in war but I fought in the war. And I don't believe
in making the Yankees madder than they already are. But if the
legislature has decided to do it, I'll stand by the legislature.
I--"

"Archie," said Uncle Henry abruptly, "drive Miss Scarlett on home.
This isn't any place for her. Politics aren't for women folks
anyway, and there's going to be cussing in a minute. Go on,
Archie. Good night, Scarlett."

As they drove off down Peachtree Street, Scarlett's heart was
beating fast with fear. Would this foolish action of the
legislature have any effect on her safety? Would it so enrage the
Yankees that she might lose her mills?

"Well, sir," rumbled Archie, "I've hearn tell of rabbits spittin'
in bulldogs' faces but I ain't never seen it till now. Them
legislatures might just as well have hollered 'Hurray for Jeff
Davis and the Southern Confederacy' for all the good it'll do them--
and us. Them nigger-lovin' Yankees have made up their mind to
make the niggers our bosses. But you got to admire them
legislatures' sperrit!"

"Admire them? Great balls of fire! Admire them? They ought to be
shot! It'll bring the Yankees down on us like a duck on a June
bug. Why couldn't they have rati--radi--whatever they were
supposed to do to it and smoothed the Yankees down instead of
stirring them up again? They're going to make us knuckle under and
we may as well knuckle now as later."

Archie fixed her with a cold eye.

"Knuckle under without a fight? Women ain't got no more pride than
goats."



When Scarlett leased ten convicts, five for each of her mills,
Archie made good his threat and refused to have anything further to
do with her. Not all Melanie's pleading or Frank's promises of
higher pay would induce him to take up the reins again. He
willingly escorted Melanie and Pitty and India and their friends
about the town but not Scarlett. He would not even drive for the
other ladies if Scarlett was in the carriage. It was an
embarrassing situation, having the old desperado sitting in
judgment upon her, and it was still more embarrassing to know that
her family and friends agreed with the old man.

Frank pleaded with her against taking the step. Ashley at first
refused to work convicts and was persuaded, against his will, only
after tears and supplications and promises that when times were
better she would hire free darkies. Neighbors were so outspoken in
their disapproval that Frank, Pitty and Melanie found it hard to
hold up their heads. Even Peter and Mammy declared that it was bad
luck to work convicts and no good would come of it. Everyone said
it was wrong to take advantage of the miseries and misfortunes of
others.

"You didn't have any objections to working slaves!" Scarlett cried
indignantly.

Ah, but that was different. Slaves were neither miserable nor
unfortunate. The negroes were far better off under slavery than
they were now under freedom, and if she didn't believe it, just
look about her! But, as usual, opposition had the effect of making
Scarlett more determined on her course. She removed Hugh from the
management of the mill, put him to driving a lumber wagon and
closed the final details of hiring Johnnie Gallegher.

He seemed to be the only person she knew who approved of the
convicts. He nodded his bullet head briefly and said it was a
smart move. Scarlett, looking at the little ex-jockey, planted
firmly on his short bowed legs, his gnomish face hard and
businesslike, thought: "Whoever let him ride their horses didn't
care much for horse flesh. I wouldn't let him get within ten feet
of any horse of mine."

But she had no qualms in trusting him with a convict gang.

"And I'm to have a free hand with the gang?" he questioned, his
eyes as cold as gray agates.

"A free hand. All I ask is that you keep that mill running and
deliver my lumber when I want it and as much as I want."

"I'm your man," said Johnnie shortly. "I'll tell Mr. Wellburn I'm
leaving him."

As he rolled off through the crowd of masons and carpenters and hod
carriers Scarlett felt relieved and her spirits rose. Johnnie was
indeed her man. He was tough and hard and there was no nonsense
about him. "Shanty Irish on the make," Frank had contemptuously
called him, but for that very reason Scarlett valued him. She knew
that an Irishman with a determination to get somewhere was a
valuable man to have, regardless of what his personal characteristics
might be. And she felt a closer kinship with him than with many men
of her own class, for Johnnie knew the value of money.

The first week he took over the mill he justified all her hopes,
for he accomplished more with five convicts than Hugh had ever done
with his crew of ten free negroes. More than that, he gave
Scarlett greater leisure than she had had since she came to Atlanta
the year before, because he had no liking for her presence at the
mill and said so frankly.

"You tend to your end of selling and let me tend to my end of
lumbering," he said shortly. "A convict camp ain't any place for a
lady and if nobody else'll tell you so, Johnnie Gallegher's telling
you now. I'm delivering your lumber, ain't I? Well, I've got no
notion to be pestered every day like Mr. Wilkes. He needs
pestering. I don't."

So Scarlett reluctantly stayed away from Johnnie's mill, fearing
that if she came too often he might quit and that would be ruinous.
His remark that Ashley needed pestering stung her, for there was
more truth in it than she liked to admit. Ashley was doing little
better with convicts than he had done with free labor, although
why, he was unable to tell. Moreover, he looked as if he were
ashamed to be working convicts and he had little to say to her
these days.

Scarlett was worried by the change that was coming over him. There
were gray hairs in his bright head now and a tired slump in his
shoulders. And he seldom smiled. He no longer looked the
debonaire Ashley who had caught her fancy so many years before. He
looked like a man secretly gnawed by a scarcely endurable pain and
there was a grim tight look about his mouth that baffled and hurt
her. She wanted to drag his head fiercely down on her shoulder,
stroke the graying hair and cry: "Tell me what's worrying you!
I'll fix it! I'll make it right for you!"

But his formal, remote air kept her at arm's length.



CHAPTER XLIII


It was one of those rare December days when the sun was almost as
warm as Indian summer. Dry red leaves still clung to the oak in
Aunt Pitty's yard and a faint yellow green still persisted in the
dying grass. Scarlett, with the baby in her arms, stepped out onto
the side porch and sat down in a rocking chair in a patch of
sunshine. She was wearing a new green challis dress trimmed with
yards and yards of black rickrack braid and a new lace house cap
which Aunt Pitty had made for her. Both were very becoming to her
and she knew it and took great pleasure in them. How good it was
to look pretty again after the long months of looking so dreadful!

As she sat rocking the baby and humming to herself, she heard the
sound of hooves coming up the side street and, peering curiously
through the tangle of dead vines on the porch, she saw Rhett Butler
riding toward the house.

He had been away from Atlanta for months, since just after Gerald
died, since long before Ella Lorena was born. She had missed him
but she now wished ardently that there was some way to avoid seeing
him. In fact, the sight of his dark face brought a feeling of
guilty panic to her breast. A matter in which Ashley was concerned
lay on her conscience and she did not wish to discuss it with
Rhett, but she knew he would force the discussion, no matter how
disinclined she might be.

He drew up at the gate and swung lightly to the ground and she
thought, staring nervously at him, that he looked just like an
illustration in a book Wade was always pestering her to read aloud.

"All he needs is earrings and a cutlass between his teeth," she
thought. "Well, pirate or no, he's not going to cut my throat
today if I can help it."

As he came up the walk she called a greeting to him, summoning her
sweetest smile. How lucky that she had on her new dress and the
becoming cap and looked so pretty! As his eyes went swiftly over
her, she knew he thought her pretty, too.

"A new baby! Why, Scarlett, this is a surprise!" he laughed,
leaning down to push the blanket away from Ella Lorena's small ugly
face.

"Don't be silly," she said, blushing. "How are you, Rhett? You've
been away a long time."

"So I have. Let me hold the baby, Scarlett. Oh, I know how to
hold babies. I have many strange accomplishments. Well, he
certainly looks like Frank. All except the whiskers, but give him
time."

"I hope not. It's a girl."

"A girl? That's better still. Boys are such nuisances. Don't
ever have any more boys, Scarlett."

It was on the tip of her tongue to reply tartly that she never
intended to have any more babies, boys or girls, but she caught
herself in time and smiled, casting about quickly in her mind for
some topic of conversation that would put off the bad moment when
the subject she feared would come up for discussion.

"Did you have a nice trip, Rhett? Where did you go this time?"

"Oh--Cuba--New Orleans--other places. Here, Scarlett, take the
baby. She's beginning to slobber and I can't get to my
handkerchief. She's a fine baby, I'm sure, but she's wetting my
shirt bosom."

She took the child back into her lap and Rhett settled himself
lazily on the banister and took a cigar from a silver case.

"You are always going to New Orleans," she said and pouted a
little. "And you never will tell me what you do there."

"I am a hard-working man, Scarlett, and perhaps my business takes
me there."

"Hard-working! You!" she laughed impertinently. "You never worked
in your life. You're too lazy. All you ever do is finance
Carpetbaggers in their thieving and take half the profits and bribe
Yankee officials to let you in on schemes to rob us taxpayers."

He threw back his head and laughed.

"And how you would love to have money enough to bribe officials, so
you could do likewise!"

"The very idea--" She began to ruffle.

"But perhaps you will make enough money to get into bribery on a
large scale some day. Maybe you'll get rich off those convicts you
leased."

"Oh," she said, a little disconcerted, "how did you find out about
my gang so soon?"

"I arrived last night and spent the evening in the Girl of the
Period Saloon, where one hears all the news of the town. It's a
clearing house for gossip. Better than a ladies' sewing circle.
Everyone told me that you'd leased a gang and put that little plug-
ugly, Gallegher, in charge to work them to death."

"That's a lie," she said angrily. "He won't work them to death.
I'll see to that."

"Will you?"

"Of course I will! How can you even insinuate such things?"

"Oh, I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Kennedy! I know your motives are
always above reproach. However, Johnnie Gallegher is a cold little
bully if I ever saw one. Better watch him or you'll be having
trouble when the inspector comes around."

"You tend to your business and I'll tend to mine," she said
indignantly. "And I don't want to talk about convicts any more.
Everybody's been hateful about them. My gang is my own business--
And you haven't told me yet what you do in New Orleans. You go
there so often that everybody says--" She paused. She had not
intended to say so much.

"What do they say?"

"Well--that you have a sweetheart there. That you are going to get
married. Are you, Rhett?"

She had been curious about this for so long that she could not
refrain from asking the point-blank question. A queer little pang
of jealousy jabbed at her at the thought of Rhett getting married,
although why that should be she did not know.

His bland eyes grew suddenly alert and he caught her gaze and held
it until a little blush crept up into her cheeks.

"Would it matter much to you?"

"Well, I should hate to lose your friendship," she said primly and,
with an attempt at disinterestedness, bent down to pull the blanket
closer about Ella Lorena's head.

He laughed suddenly, shortly, and said: "Look at me, Scarlett."

She looked up unwillingly, her blush deepening.

"You can tell your curious friends that when I marry it will be
because I couldn't get the woman I wanted in any other way. And
I've never yet wanted a woman bad enough to marry her."

Now she was indeed confused and embarrassed, for she remembered the
night on this very porch during the siege when he had said: "I am
not a marrying man" and casually suggested that she become his
mistress--remembered, too, the terrible day when he was in jail and
was shamed by the memory. A slow malicious smile went over his
face as he read her eyes.

"But I will satisfy your vulgar curiosity since you ask such
pointed questions. It isn't a sweetheart that takes me to New
Orleans. It's a child, a little boy."

"A little boy!" The shock of this unexpected information wiped out
her confusion.

"Yes, he is my legal ward and I am responsible for him. He's in
school in New Orleans. I go there frequently to see him."

"And take him presents?" So, she thought, that's how he always
knows what kind of presents Wade likes!

"Yes," he said shortly, unwillingly.

"Well, I never! Is he handsome?"

"Too handsome for his own good."

"Is he a nice little boy?"

"No. He's a perfect hellion. I wish he had never been born. Boys
are troublesome creatures. Is there anything else you'd like to
know?"

He looked suddenly angry and his brow was dark, as though he
already regretted speaking of the matter at all.

"Well, not if you don't want to tell me any more," she said
loftily, though she was burning for further information. "But I
just can't see you in the role of a guardian," and she laughed,
hoping to disconcert him.

"No, I don't suppose you can. Your vision is pretty limited."

He said no more and smoked his cigar in silence for a while. She
cast about for some remark as rude as his but could think of none.

"I would appreciate it if you'd say nothing of this to anyone," he
said finally. "Though I suppose that asking a woman to keep her
mouth shut is asking the impossible."

"I can keep a secret," she said with injured dignity.

"Can you? It's nice to learn unsuspected things about friends.
Now, stop pouting, Scarlett. I'm sorry I was rude but you deserved
it for prying. Give me a smile and let's be pleasant for a minute
or two before I take up an unpleasant subject."

Oh, dear! she thought. Now, he's going to talk about Ashley and
the mill! and she hastened to smile and show her dimple to divert
him. "Where else did you go, Rhett? You haven't been in New
Orleans all this time, have you?"

"No, for the last month I've been in Charleston. My father died."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm sure he wasn't sorry to die, and I'm sure I'm not
sorry he's dead."

"Rhett, what a dreadful thing to say!"

"It would be much more dreadful if I pretended to be sorry, when I
wasn't, wouldn't it? There was never any love lost between us. I
cannot remember when the old gentleman did not disapprove of me. I
was too much like his own father and he disapproved heartily of his
father. And as I grew older his disapproval of me became downright
dislike, which, I admit, I did little to change. All the things
Father wanted me to do and be were such boring things. And finally
he threw me out into the world without a cent and no training
whatsoever to be anything but a Charleston gentleman, a good pistol
shot and an excellent poker player. And he seemed to take it as a
personal affront that I did not starve but put my poker playing to
excellent advantage and supported myself royally by gambling. He
was so affronted at a Butler becoming a gambler that when I came
home for the first time, he forbade my mother to see me. And all
during the war when I was blockading out of Charleston, Mother had
to lie and slip off to see me. Naturally that didn't increase my
love for him."

"Oh, I didn't know all that!"

"He was what is pointed out as a fine old gentleman of the old
school which means that he was ignorant, thick headed, intolerant
and incapable of thinking along any lines except what other
gentlemen of the old school thought. Everyone admired him
tremendously for having cut me off and counted me as dead. 'If thy
right eye offend thee, pluck it out.' I was his right eye, his
oldest son, and he plucked me out with a vengeance."

He smiled a little, his eyes hard with amused memory.

"Well, I could forgive all that but I can't forgive what he's done
to Mother and my sister since the war ended. They've been
practically destitute. The plantation house was burned and the
rice fields have gone back to marsh lands. And the town house went
for taxes and they've been living in two rooms that aren't fit for
darkies. I've sent money to Mother, but Father has sent it back--
tainted money, you see!--and several times I've gone to Charleston
and given money, on the sly, to my sister. But Father always found
out and raised merry hell with her, till her life wasn't worth
living, poor girl. And back the money came to me. I don't know
how they've lived. . . . Yes, I do know. My brother's given what
he could, though he hasn't much to give and he won't take anything
from me either--speculator's money is unlucky money, you see! And
the charity of their friends. Your Aunt Eulalie, she's been very
kind. She's one of Mother's best friends, you know. She's given
them clothes and-- Good God! My mother on charity!"

It was one of the few times she had ever seen him with his mask
off, his face hard with honest hatred for his father and distress
for his mother.

"Aunt 'Lalie! But, good Heavens, Rhett, she hasn't got anything
much above what I send her!"

"Ah, so that's where it comes from! How ill bred of you, my dear,
to brag of such a thing in the face of my humiliation. You must
let me reimburse you!"

"With pleasure," said Scarlett, her mouth suddenly twisting into a
grin, and he smiled back.

"Ah, Scarlett, how the thought of a dollar does make your eyes
sparkle! Are you sure you haven't some Scotch or perhaps Jewish
blood as well as Irish?"

"Don't be hateful! I didn't mean to throw it in your face about
Aunt 'Lalie. But honestly, she thinks I'm made of money. She's
always writing me for more and, God knows, I've got enough on my
hands without supporting all of Charleston. What did your father
die of?"

"Genteel starvation, I think--and hope. It served him right. He
was willing to let Mother and Rosemary starve with him. Now that
he's dead, I can help them. I've bought them a house on the
Battery and they've servants to look after them. But of course,
they couldn't let it be known that the money came from me."

"Why not?"

"My dear, surely you know Charleston! You've visited there. My
family may be poor but they have a position to uphold. And they
couldn't uphold it if it were known that gambling money and
speculator's money and Carpetbag money was behind it. No, they
gave it out that Father left an enormous life insurance--that he'd
beggared himself and starved himself to death to keep up the
payments, so that after he died, they'd be provided for. So he is
looked upon as an even greater gentleman of the old school than
before. . . . In fact, a martyr to his family. I hope he's
turning in his grave at the knowledge that Mother and Rosemary are
comfortable now, in spite of his efforts. . . . In a way, I'm
sorry he's dead because he wanted to die--was so glad to die."

"Why?"

"Oh, he really died when Lee surrendered. You know the type. He
never could adjust himself to the new times and spent his time
talking about the good old days."

"Rhett, are all old folks like that?" She was thinking of Gerald
and what Will had said about him.

"Heavens, no! Just look at your Uncle Henry and that old wild cat,
Mr. Merriwether, just to name two. They took a new lease on life
when they marched out with the Home Guard and it seems to me that
they've gotten younger and more peppery ever since. I met old man
Merriwether this morning driving Rene's pie wagon and cursing the
horse like an army mule skinner. He told me he felt ten years
younger since he escaped from the house and his daughter-in-law's
coddling and took to driving the wagon. And your Uncle Henry
enjoys fighting the Yankees in court and out and defending the
widow and the orphan--free of charge, I fear--against the
Carpetbaggers. If there hadn't been a war, he'd have retired long
ago and nursed his rheumatism. They're young again because they
are of use again and feel that they are needed. And they like this
new day that gives old men another chance. But there are plenty of
people, young people, who feel like my father and your father.
They can't and won't adjust and that brings me to the unpleasant
subject I want to discuss with you, Scarlett."

His sudden shift so disconcerted her that she stammered: "What--
what--" and inwardly groaned: "Oh, Lord! Now, it's coming. I
wonder if I can butter him down?"

"I shouldn't have expected either truth or honor or fair dealing
from you, knowing you as I do. But foolishly, I trusted you."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do. At any rate, you look very guilty. As I was
riding along Ivy Street a while ago, on my way to call on you, who
should hail me from behind a hedge but Mrs. Ashley Wilkes! Of
course, I stopped and chatted with her."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, we had an enjoyable talk. She told me she had always wanted
to let me know how brave she thought I was to have struck a blow
for the Confederacy, even at the eleventh hour."

"Oh, fiddle-dee-dee! Melly's a fool. She might have died that
night because you acted so heroic."

"I imagine she would have thought her life given in a good cause.
And when I asked her what she was doing in Atlanta she looked quite
surprised at my ignorance and told me that they were living here
now and that you had been kind enough to make Mr. Wilkes a partner
in your mill."

"Well, what of it?" questioned Scarlett, shortly.

"When I lent you the money to buy that mill I made one stipulation,
to which you agreed, and that was that it should not go to the
support of Ashley Wilkes."

"You are being very offensive. I've paid you back your money and I
own the mill and what I do with it is my own business."

"Would you mind telling me how you made the money to pay back my
loan?"

"I made it selling lumber, of course."

"You made it with the money I lent you to give you your start.
That's what you mean. My money is being used to support Ashley.
You are a woman quite without honor and if you hadn't repaid my
loan, I'd take great pleasure in calling it in now and selling you
out at public auction if you couldn't pay."

He spoke lightly but there was anger flickering in his eyes.

Scarlett hastily carried the warfare into the enemy's territory.

"Why do you hate Ashley so much? I believe you're jealous of him."

After she had spoken she could have bitten her tongue, for he threw
back his head and laughed until she went red with mortification.

"Add conceit to dishonor," he said. "You'll never get over being
the belle of the County, will you? You'll always think you're the
cutest little trick in shoe leather and that every man you meet is
expiring for love of you."

"I don't either!" she cried hotly. "But I just can't see why you
hate Ashley so much and that's the only explanation I can think
of."

"Well, think something else, pretty charmer, for that's the wrong
explanation. And as for hating Ashley--I don't hate him any more
than I like him. In fact, my only emotion toward him and his kind
is pity."

"Pity?"

"Yes, and a little contempt. Now, swell up like a gobbler and tell
me that he is worth a thousand blackguards like me and that I
shouldn't dare to be so presumptuous as to feel either pity or
contempt for him. And when you have finished swelling, I'll tell
you what I mean, if you're interested."

"Well, I'm not."

"I shall tell you, just the same, for I can't bear for you to go on
nursing your pleasant delusion of my jealousy. I pity him because
he ought to be dead and he isn't. And I have a contempt for him
because he doesn't know what to do with himself now that his world
is gone."

There was something familiar in the idea he expressed. She had a
confused memory of having heard similar words but she could not
remember when and where. She did not think very hard about it for
her anger was hot.

"If you had your way all the decent men in the South would be
dead!"

"And if they had their way, I think Ashley's kind would prefer to
be dead. Dead with neat stones above them, saying: 'Here lies a
soldier of the Confederacy, dead for the Southland' or 'Dulce et
decorum est--' or any of the other popular epitaphs."

"I don't see why!"

"You never see anything that isn't written in letters a foot high
and then shoved under your nose, do you? If they were dead, their
troubles would be over, there'd be no problems to face, problems
that have no solutions. Moreover, their families would be proud of
them through countless generations. And I've heard the dead are
happy. Do you suppose Ashley Wilkes is happy?"

"Why, of course--" she began and then she remembered the look in
Ashley's eyes recently and stopped.

"Is he happy or Hugh Elsing or Dr. Meade? Any more than my father
and your father were happy?"

"Well, perhaps not as happy as they might be, because they've all
lost their money."

He laughed.

"It isn't losing their money, my pet. I tell you it's losing their
world--the world they were raised in. They're like fish out of
water or cats with wings. They were raised to be certain persons,
to do certain things, to occupy certain niches. And those persons
and things and niches disappeared forever when General Lee arrived
at Appomattox. Oh, Scarlett, don't look so stupid! What is there
for Ashley Wilkes to do, now that his home is gone and his
plantation taken up for taxes and fine gentlemen are going twenty
for a penny? Can he work with his head or his hands? I'll bet
you've lost money hand over fist since he took over that mill."

"I have not!"

"How nice. May I look over your books some Sunday evening when you
are at leisure?"

"You can go to the devil and not at your leisure. You can go now,
for all I care."

"My pet, I've been to the devil and he's a very dull fellow. I
won't go there again, even for you. . . . You took my money when
you needed it desperately and you used it. We had an agreement as
to how it should be used and you have broken that agreement. Just
remember, my precious little cheat, the time will come when you
will want to borrow more money from me. You'll want me to bank
you, at some incredibly low interest, so you can buy more mills and
more mules and build more saloons. And you can whistle for the
money."

"When I need money I'll borrow it from the bank, thank you," she
said coldly, but her breast was heaving with rage.

"Will you? Try to do it. I own plenty of stock in the bank."

"You do?"

"Yes, I am interested in some honest enterprises."

"There are other banks--"

"Plenty of them. And if I can manage it, you'll play hell getting
a cent from any of them. You can go to the Carpetbag usurers if
you want money."

"I'll go to them with pleasure."

"You'll go but with little pleasure when you learn their rates of
interest. My pretty, there are penalties in the business world for
crooked dealing. You should have played straight with me."

"You're a fine man, aren't you? So rich and powerful yet picking
on people who are down, like Ashley and me!"

"Don't put yourself in his class. You aren't down. Nothing will
down you. But he is down and he'll stay there unless there's some
energetic person behind him, guiding and protecting him as long as
he lives. I'm of no mind to have my money used for the benefit of
such a person."

"You didn't mind helping me and I was down and--"

"You were a good risk, my dear, an interesting risk. Why? Because
you didn't plump yourself down on your male relatives and sob for
the old days. You got out and hustled and now your fortunes are
firmly planted on money stolen from a dead man's wallet and money
stolen from the Confederacy. You've got murder to your credit, and
husband stealing, attempted fornication, lying and sharp dealing
and any amount of chicanery that won't bear close inspection.
Admirable things, all of them. They show you to be a person of
energy and determination and a good money risk. It's entertaining,
helping people who help themselves. I'd lend ten thousand dollars
without even a note to that old Roman matron, Mrs. Merriwether.
She started with a basket of pies and look at her now! A bakery
employing half a dozen people, old Grandpa happy with his delivery
wagon and that lazy little Creole, Rene, working hard and liking
it. . . . Or that poor devil, Tommy Wellburn, who does two men's
work with half a man's body and does it well or--well, I won't go
on and bore you."

"You do bore me. You bore me to distraction," said Scarlett
coldly, hoping to annoy him and divert him from the ever-
unfortunate subject of Ashley. But he only laughed shortly and
refused to take up the gauntlet.

"People like them are worth helping. But Ashley Wilkes--bah! His
breed is of no use or value in an upside-down world like ours.
Whenever the world up-ends, his kind is the first to perish. And
why not? They don't deserve to survive because they won't fight--
don't know how to fight. This isn't the first time the world's
been upside down and it won't be the last. It's happened before
and it'll happen again. And when it does happen, everyone loses
everything and everyone is equal. And then they all start again at
taw, with nothing at all. That is, nothing except the cunning of
their brains and strength of their hands. But some people, like
Ashley, have neither cunning nor strength or, having them, scruple
to use them. And so they go under and they should go under. It's
a natural law and the world is better off without them. But there
are always a hardy few who come through and given time, they are
right back where they were before the world turned over."

"You've been poor! You just said that your father turned you out
without a penny!" said Scarlett, furious. "I should think you'd
understand and sympathize with Ashley!"

"I do understand," said Rhett, "but I'm damned if I sympathize.
After the surrender Ashley had much more than I had when I was
thrown out. At least, he had friends who took him in, whereas I
was Ishmael. But what has Ashley done with himself?"

"If you are comparing him with yourself, you conceited thing, why--
He's not like you, thank God! He wouldn't soil his hands as you
do, making money with Carpetbaggers and Scallawags and Yankees.
He's scrupulous and honorable!"

"But not too scrupulous and honorable to take aid and money from a
woman."

"What else could he have done?"

"Who am I to say? I only know what I did, both when I was thrown
out and nowadays. I only know what other men have done. We saw
opportunity in the ruin of a civilization and we made the most of
our opportunity, some honestly, some shadily, and we are still
making the most of it. But the Ashleys of this world have the same
chances and don't take them. They just aren't smart, Scarlett, and
only the smart deserve to survive."

She hardly heard what he was saying, for now there was coming back
to her the exact memory which had teased her a few minutes before
when he first began speaking. She remembered the cold wind that
swept the orchard of Tara and Ashley standing by a pile of rails,
his eyes looking beyond her. And he had said--what? Some funny
foreign name that sounded like profanity and had talked of the end
of the world. She had not known what he meant then but now
bewildered comprehension was coming to her and with it a sick,
weary feeling.

"Why, Ashley said--"

"Yes?"

"Once at Tara he said something about the--a--dusk of the gods and
about the end of the world and some such foolishness."

"Ah, the Gotterdammerung!" Rhett's eyes were sharp with interest.
"And what else?"

"Oh, I don't remember exactly. I wasn't paying much mind. But--
yes--something about the strong coming through and the weak being
winnowed out."

"Ah, so he knows. Then that makes it harder for him. Most of them
don't know and will never know. They'll wonder all their lives
where the lost enchantment has vanished. They'll simply suffer in
proud and incompetent silence. But he understands. He knows he's
winnowed out."

"Oh, he isn't! Not while I've got breath in my body."

He looked at her quietly and his brown face was smooth.

"Scarlett, how did you manage to get his consent to come to Atlanta
and take over the mill? Did he struggle very hard against you?"

She had a quick memory of the scene with Ashley after Gerald's
funeral and put it from her.

"Why, of course not," she replied indignantly. "When I explained
to him that I needed his help because I didn't trust that scamp who
was running the mill and Frank was too busy to help me and I was
going to--well, there was Ella Lorena, you see. He was very glad
to help me out."

"Sweet are the uses of motherhood! So that's how you got around
him. Well, you've got him where you want him now, poor devil, as
shackled to you by obligations as any of your convicts are by their
chains. And I wish you both joy. But, as I said at the beginning
of this discussion, you'll never get another cent out of me for any
of your little unladylike schemes, my double-dealing lady."

She was smarting with anger and with disappointment as well. For
some time she had been planning to borrow more money from Rhett to
buy a lot downtown and start a lumber yard there.

"I can do without your money," she cried. "I'm making money out of
Johnnie Gallegher's mill, plenty of it, now that I don't use free
darkies and I have some money out on mortgages and we are coining
cash at the store from the darky trade."

"Yes, so I heard. How clever of you to rook the helpless and the
widow and the orphan and the ignorant! But if you must steal,
Scarlett, why not steal from the rich and strong instead of the
poor and weak? From Robin Hood on down to now, that's been
considered highly moral."

"Because," said Scarlett shortly, "it's a sight easier and safer to
steal--as you call it--from the poor."

He laughed silently, his shoulders shaking.

"You're a fine honest rogue, Scarlett!"

A rogue! Queer that that term should hurt. She wasn't a rogue,
she told herself vehemently. At least, that wasn't what she wanted
to be. She wanted to be a great lady. For a moment her mind went
swiftly down the years and she saw her mother, moving with a sweet
swish of skirts and a faint fragrance of sachet, her small busy
hands tireless in the service of others, loved, respected,
cherished. And suddenly her heart was sick.

"If you are trying to devil me," she said tiredly, "it's no use. I
know I'm not as--scrupulous as I should be these days. Not as kind
and as pleasant as I was brought up to be. But I can't help it,
Rhett. Truly, I can't. What else could I have done? What would
have happened to me, to Wade, to Tara and all of us if I'd been--
gentle when that Yankee came to Tara? I should have been--but I
don't even want to think of that. And when Jonas Wilkerson was
going to take the home place, suppose I'd been--kind and
scrupulous? Where would we all be now? And if I'd been sweet and
simple minded and not nagged Frank about bad debts we'd--oh, well.
Maybe I am a rogue, but I won't be a rogue forever, Rhett. But
during these past years--and even now--what else could I have done?
How else could I have acted? I've felt that I was trying to row a
heavily loaded boat in a storm. I've had so much trouble just
trying to keep afloat that I couldn't be bothered about things that
didn't matter, things I could part with easily and not miss, like
good manners and--well, things like that. I've been too afraid my
boat would be swamped and so I've dumped overboard the things that
seemed least important."

"Pride and honor and truth and virtue and kindliness," he
enumerated silkily. "You are right, Scarlett. They aren't
important when a boat is sinking. But look around you at your
friends. Either they are bringing their boats ashore safely with
cargoes intact or they are content to go down with all flags
flying."

"They are a passel of fools," she said shortly. "There's a time
for all things. When I've got plenty of money, I'll be nice as you
please, too. Butter won't melt in my mouth. I can afford to be
then."

"You can afford to be--but you won't. It's hard to salvage
jettisoned cargo and, if it is retrieved, it's usually irreparably
damaged. And I fear that when you can afford to fish up the honor
and virtue and kindness you've thrown overboard, you'll find they
have suffered a sea change and not, I fear, into something rich and
strange. . . ."

He rose suddenly and picked up his hat.

"You are going?"

"Yes. Aren't you relieved? I leave you to what remains of your
conscience."

He paused and looked down at the baby, putting out a finger for the
child to grip.

"I suppose Frank is bursting with pride?"

"Oh, of course."

"Has a lot of plans for this baby, I suppose?"

"Oh, well, you know how silly men are about their babies."

"Then, tell him," said Rhett and stopped short, an odd look on his
face, "tell him if he wants to see his plans for his child work
out, he'd better stay home at night more often than he's doing."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. Tell him to stay home."

"Oh, you vile creature! To insinuate that poor Frank would--"

"Oh, good Lord!" Rhett broke into a roar of laughter. "I didn't
mean he was running around with women! Frank! Oh, good Lord!"

He went down the steps still laughing.



CHAPTER XLIV


The march afternoon was windy and cold, and Scarlett pulled the lap
robe high under her arms as she drove out the Decatur road toward
Johnnie Gallegher's mill. Driving alone was hazardous these days
and she knew it, more hazardous than ever before, for now the
negroes were completely out of hand. As Ashley had prophesied,
there had been hell to pay since the legislature refused to ratify
the amendment. The stout refusal had been like a slap in the face
of the furious North and retaliation had come swiftly. The North
was determined to force the negro vote on the state and, to this
end, Georgia had been declared in rebellion and put under the
strictest martial law. Georgia's very existence as a state had
been wiped out and it had become, with Florida and Alabama,
"Military District Number Three," under the command of a Federal
general.

If life had been insecure and frightening before this, it was
doubly so now. The military regulations which had seemed so
stringent the year before were now mild by comparison with the ones
issued by General Pope. Confronted with the prospect of negro
rule, the future seemed dark and hopeless, and the embittered state
smarted and writhed helplessly. As for the negroes, their new
importance went to their heads, and, realizing that they had the
Yankee Army behind them, their outrages increased. No one was safe
from them.

In this wild and fearful time, Scarlett was frightened--frightened
but determined, and she still made her rounds alone, with Frank's
pistol tucked in the upholstery of the buggy. She silently cursed
the legislature for bringing this worse disaster upon them all.
What good had it done, this fine brave stand, this gesture which
everyone called gallant? It had just made matters so much worse.

As she drew near the path that led down through the bare trees into
the creek bottom where the Shantytown settlement was, she clucked
to the horse to quicken his speed. She always felt uneasy driving
past this dirty, sordid cluster of discarded army tents and slave
cabins. It had the worst reputation of any spot in or near
Atlanta, for here lived in filth outcast negroes, black prostitutes
and a scattering of poor whites of the lowest order. It was
rumored to be the refuge of negro and white criminals and was the
first place the Yankee soldiers searched when they wanted a man.
Shootings and cuttings went on here with such regularity that the
authorities seldom troubled to investigate and generally left the
Shantytowners to settle their own dark affairs. Back in the woods
there was a still that manufactured a cheap quality of corn whisky
and, by night, the cabins in the creek bottoms resounded with
drunken yells and curses.

Even the Yankees admitted that it was a plague spot and should be
wiped out, but they took no steps in this direction. Indignation
was loud among the inhabitants of Atlanta and Decatur who were
forced to use the road for travel between the two towns. Men went
by Shantytown with their pistols loosened in their holsters and
nice women never willingly passed it, even under the protection of
their men, for usually there were drunken negro slatterns sitting
along the road, hurling insults and shouting coarse words.

As long as she had Archie beside her, Scarlett had not given
Shantytown a thought, because not even the most impudent negro
woman dared laugh in her presence. But since she had been forced
to drive alone, there had been any number of annoying, maddening
incidents. The negro sluts seemed to try themselves whenever she
drove by. There was nothing she could do except ignore them and
boil with rage. She could not even take comfort in airing her
troubles to her neighbors or family because the neighbors would say
triumphantly: "Well, what else did you expect?" And her family
would take on dreadfully again and try to stop her. And she had no
intention of stopping her trips.

Thank Heaven, there were no ragged women along the roadside today!
As she passed the trail leading down to the settlement she looked
with distaste at the group of shacks squatting in the hollow in the
dreary slant of the afternoon sun. There was a chill wind blowing,
and as she passed there came to her nose the mingled smells of wood
smoke, frying pork and untended privies. Averting her nose, she
flapped the reins smartly across the horse's back and hurried him
past and around the bend of the road.

Just as she was beginning to draw a breath of relief, her heart
rose in her throat with sudden fright, for a huge negro slipped
silently from behind a large oak tree. She was frightened but not
enough to lose her wits and, in an instant, the horse was pulled up
and she had Frank's pistol in her hand.

"What do you want?" she cried with all the sternness she could
muster. The big negro ducked back behind the oak, and the voice
that answered was frightened.

"Lawd, Miss Scarlett, doan shoot Big Sam!"

Big Sam! For a moment she could not take in his words. Big Sam,
the foreman of Tara whom she had seen last in the days of the
siege. What on earth . . .

"Come out of there and let me see if you are really Sam!"

Reluctantly he slid out of his hiding place, a giant ragged figure,
bare-footed, clad in denim breeches and a blue Union uniform jacket
that was far too short and tight for his big frame. When she saw
it was really Big Sam, she shoved the pistol down into the
upholstery and smiled with pleasure.

"Oh, Sam! How nice to see you!"

Sam galloped over to the buggy, his eyes rolling with joy and his
white teeth flashing, and clutched her outstretched hand with two
black hands as big as hams. His watermelon-pink tongue lapped out,
his whole body wiggled and his joyful contortions were as ludicrous
as the gambolings of a mastiff.

"Mah Lawd, it sho is good ter see some of de fambly agin!" he
cried, scrunching her hand until she felt that the bones would
crack. "Hucoome you got so mean lak, totin' a gun, Miss Scarlett?"

"So many mean folks these days, Sam, that I have to tote it. What
on earth are you doing in a nasty place like Shantytown, you, a
respectable darky? And why haven't you been into town to see me?"

"Law'm, Miss Scarlett, ah doan lib in Shantytown. Ah jes' bidin'
hyah fer a spell. Ah wouldn' lib in dat place for nuthin'. Ah
nebber in mah life seed sech trashy niggers. An' Ah din' know you
wuz in 'Lanta. Ah thought you wuz at Tara. Ah wuz aimin' ter come
home ter Tara soon as Ah got de chance."

"Have you been living in Atlanta ever since the siege?"

"No, Ma'm! Ah been trabelin'!" He released her hand and she
painfully flexed it to see if the bones were intact. "'Member w'en
you seed me las'?"

Scarlett remembered the hot day before the siege began when she and
Rhett had sat in the carriage and the gang of negroes with Big Sam
at their head had marched down the dusty street toward the
entrenchments singing "Go Down, Moses." She nodded.

"Wel, Ah wuked lak a dawg diggin' bresswuks an' fillin' San' bags,
tell de Confedruts lef' 'Lanta. De cap'n gempmum whut had me in
charge, he wuz kilt an' dar warn't nobody ter tell Big Sam whut ter
do, so Ah jes' lay low in de bushes. Ah thought Ah'd try ter git
home ter Tara, but den Ah hear dat all de country roun' Tara done
buhnt up. 'Sides, Ah din' hab no way ter git back an' Ah wuz
sceered de patterollers pick me up, kase Ah din' hab no pass. Den
de Yankees come in an' a Yankee gempmum, he wuz a cunnel, he tek a
shine ter me an' he keep me te ten' ter his hawse an' his boots.

"Yas, Ma'm! Ah sho did feel bigitty, bein' a body serbant lak
Poke, w'en Ah ain' nuthin' but a fe'el han'. Ah ain' tell de
Cunnel Ah wuz a fe'el han' an' he-- Well, Miss Scarlett, Yankees
is iggerunt folks! He din' know de diffunce! So Ah stayed wid him
an' Ah went ter Sabannah wid him w'en Gin'ul Sherman went dar, an'
fo' Gawd, Miss Scarlett, Ah nebber seed sech awful goin'-ons as Ah
seed on de way ter Sabannah! A-stealin' an' a-buhnin'--did dey
buhn Tara, Miss Scarlett?"

"They set fire to it, but we put it out."

"Well'm, Ah sho glad ter hear dat. Tara mah home an' Ah is aimin'
ter go back dar. An' w'en de wah ober, de Cunnel he say ter me:
'You Sam! You come on back Nawth wid me. Ah pay you good wages.'
Well'm, lak all de niggers, Ah wuz honin' ter try disyere freedom
fo' Ah went home, so Ah goes Nawth wid de Cunnel. Yas'm, us went
ter Washington an' Noo Yawk an' den ter Bawston whar de Cunnel lib.
Yas, Ma'am, Ah's a trabeled nigger! Miss Scarlett, dar's mo'
hawses and cah'iges on dem Yankee streets dan you kin shake a stick
at! Ah wuz sceered all de time Ah wuz gwine git runned ober!"

"Did you like it up North, Sam?"

Sam scratched his woolly head.

"Ah did--an' Ah din't. De Cunnel, he a mighty fine man an' he
unnerstan' niggers. But his wife, she sumpin' else. His wife, she
call me 'Mister' fust time she seed me. Yas'm, she do dat an' Ah
lak ter drap in mah tracks w'en she do it. De Cunnel, he tell her
ter call me 'Sam' an' den she do it. But all dem Yankee folks,
fust time dey meet me, dey call me 'Mist' O'Hara.' An' dey ast me
ter set down wid dem, lak Ah wuz jes' as good as dey wuz. Well, Ah
ain' nebber set down wid w'ite folks an' Ah is too ole ter learn.
Dey treat me lak Ah jes' as good as dey wuz, Miss Scarlett, but in
dere hearts, dey din' lak me--dey din' lak no niggers. An' dey wuz
sceered of me, kase Ah's so big. An' dey wuz allus astin' me 'bout
de blood houn's dat chase me an' de beatin's Ah got. An', Lawd,
Miss Scarlett, Ah ain' nebber got no beatin's! You know Mist'
Gerald ain' gwine let nobody beat a 'spensive nigger lak me!

"W'en Ah tell dem dat an' tell dem how good Miss Ellen ter de
niggers, an' how she set up a whole week wid me w'en Ah had de
pneumony, dey doan b'lieve me. An', Miss Scarlett, Ah got ter
honin' fer Miss Ellen an' Tara, tell it look lak Ah kain stan' it
no longer, an' one night Ah lit out fer home, an' Ah rid de freight
cabs all de way down ter 'Lanta. Ef you buy me a ticket ter Tara,
Ah sho be glad ter git home. Ah sho be glad ter see Miss Ellen and
Mist' Gerald agin. An done had nuff freedom. Ah wants somebody
ter feed me good vittles reg'lar, and tell me whut ter do an' whut
not ter do, an' look affer me w'en Ah gits sick. S'pose Ah gits de
pneumony agin? Is dat Yankee lady gwine tek keer of me? No, Ma'm!
She gwine call me 'Mist' O'Hara' but she ain' gwine nuss me. But
Miss Ellen, she gwine nuss me, do Ah git sick an'--whut's de
mattuh, Miss Scarlett?"

"Pa and Mother are both dead, Sam."

"Daid? Is you funnin' wid me, Miss Scarlett? Dat ain' no way ter
treat me!"

"I'm not funning. It's true. Mother died when Sherman men came
through Tara and Pa--he went last June. Oh, Sam, don't cry.
Please don't! If you do, I'll cry too. Sam, don't! I just can't
stand it. Let's don't talk about it now. I'll tell you all about
it some other time. . . . Miss Suellen is at Tara and she's
married to a mighty fine man, Mr. Will Benteen. And Miss Carreen,
she's in a--" Scarlett paused. She could never make plain to the
weeping giant what a convent was. "She's living in Charleston now.
But Pork and Prissy are at Tara. . . . There, Sam, wipe your nose.
Do you really want to go home?"

"Yas'm but it ain' gwine be lak Ah thought wid Miss Ellen an'--"

"Sam, how'd you like to stay here in Atlanta and work for me? I
need a driver and I need one bad with so many mean folks around
these days."

"Yas'm. You sho do. Ah been aimin' ter say you ain' got no bizness
drivin' 'round by yo'seff, Miss Scarlett. You ain' got no notion
how mean some niggers is dese days, specially dem whut live hyah in
Shantytown. It ain' safe fer you. Ah ain' been in Shantytown but
two days, but Ah hear dem talk 'bout you. An' yesterday w'en you
druv by an' dem trashy black wenches holler at you, Ah recernize
you but you went by so fas' Ah couldn' ketch you. But Ah sho tan
de hides of dem niggers! Ah sho did. Ain' you notice dar ain'
none of dem roun' hyah terday?"

"I did notice and I certainly thank you, Sam. Well, how would you
like to be my carriage man?"

"Miss Scarlett, thankee, Ma'm, but Ah specs Ah better go ter Tara."

Big Sam looked down and his bare toe traced aimless marks in the
road. There was a furtive uneasiness about him.

"Now, why? I'll pay you good wages. You must stay with me."

The big black face, stupid and as easily read as a child's, looked
up at her and there was fear in it. He came closer and, leaning
over the side of the buggy, whispered:

"Miss Scarlett, Ah got ter git outer 'Lanta. Ah got ter git ter
Tara whar dey woan fine me. Ah--Ah done kilt a man."

"A darky?"

"No'm. A w'ite man. A Yankee sojer and dey's lookin' fer me. Dat
de reason Ah'm hyah at Shantytown."

"How did it happen?"

"He wuz drunk an' he said sumpin' Ah couldn' tek noways an' Ah got
mah han's on his neck--an' Ah din' mean ter kill him, Miss
Scarlett, but mah han's is pow'ful strong, an' fo' Ah knowed it, he
wuz kilt. An' Ah wuz so sceered Ah din' know whut ter do! So Ah
come out hyah ter hide an' w'en Ah seed you go by yestiddy, Ah says
'Bress Gawd! Dar Miss Scarlett! She tek keer of me. She ain'
gwine let de Yankees git me. She sen' me back ter Tara."

"You say they're after you? They know you did it?"

"Yas'm, Ah's so big dar ain' no mistakin' me. Ah spec Ah's de
bigges' nigger in 'Lanta. Dey done been out hyah already affer me
las' night but a nigger gal, she hid me in a cabe ober in de woods,
tell dey wuz gone."

Scarlett sat frowning for a moment. She was not in the least
alarmed or distressed that Sam had committed murder, but she was
disappointed that she could not have him as a driver. A big negro
like Sam would be as good a bodyguard as Archie. Well, she must
get him safe to Tara somehow, for of course the authorities must
not get him. He was too valuable a darky to be hanged. Why, he
was the best foreman Tara had ever had! It did not enter
Scarlett's mind that he was free. He still belonged to her, like
Pork and Mammy and Peter and Cookie and Prissy. He was still "one
of our family" and, as such, must be protected.

"I'll send you to Tara tonight," she said finally. "Now Sam, I've
got to drive out the road a piece, but I ought to be back here
before sundown. You be waiting here for me when I come back.
Don't tell anyone where you are going and if you've got a hat,
bring it along to hide your face."

"Ah ain' got no hat."

"Well, here's a quarter. You buy a hat from one of those shanty
darkies and meet me here."

"Yas'm." His face glowed with relief at once more having someone
to tell him what to do.

Scarlett drove on thoughtfully. Will would certainly welcome a
good field hand at Tara. Pork had never been any good in the
fields and never would be any good. With Sam on the place, Pork
could come to Atlanta and join Dilcey as she had promised him when
Gerald died.

When she reached the mill the sun was setting and it was later than
she cared to be out. Johnnie Gallegher was standing in the doorway
of the miserable shack that served as cook room for the little
lumber camp. Sitting on a log in front of the slab-sided shack
that was their sleeping quarters were four of the five convicts
Scarlett had apportioned to Johnnie's mill. Their convict uniforms
were dirty and foul with sweat, shackles clanked between their
ankles when they moved tiredly, and there was an air of apathy and
despair about them. They were a thin, unwholesome lot, Scarlett
thought, peering sharply at them, and when she had leased them, so
short a time before, they were an upstanding crew. They did not
even raise their eyes as she dismounted from the buggy but Johnnie
turned toward her, carelessly dragging off his hat. His little
brown face was as hard as a nut as he greeted her.

"I don't like the look of the men," she said abruptly. "They don't
look well. Where's the other one?"

"Says he's sick," said Johnnie laconically. "He's in the bunk
house."

"What ails him?"

"Laziness, mostly."

"I'll go see him."

"Don't do that. He's probably nekkid. I'll tend to him. He'll be
back at work tomorrow."

Scarlett hesitated and saw one of the convicts raise a weary head
and give Johnnie a stare of intense hatred before he looked at the
ground again.

"Have you been whipping these men?"

"Now, Mrs. Kennedy, begging your pardon, who's running this mill?
You put me in charge and told me to run it. You said I'd have a
free hand. You ain't got no complaints to make of me, have you?
Ain't I making twice as much for you as Mr. Elsing did?"

"Yes, you are," said Scarlett, but a shiver went over her, like a
goose walking across her grave.

There was something sinister about this camp with its ugly shacks,
something which had not been here when Hugh Elsing had it. There
was a loneliness, an isolation, about it that chilled her. These
convicts were so far away from everything, so completely at the
mercy of Johnnie Gallegher, and if he chose to whip them or
otherwise mistreat them, she would probably never know about it.
The convicts would be afraid to complain to her for fear of worse
punishment after she was gone.

"The men look thin. Are you giving them enough to eat? God knows,
I spend enough money on their food to make them fat as hogs. The
flour and pork alone cost thirty dollars last month. What are you
giving them for supper?"

She stepped over to the cook shack and looked in. A fat mulatto
woman, who was leaning over a rusty old stove, dropped a half
curtsy as she saw Scarlett and went on stirring a pot in which
black-eyed peas were cooking. Scarlett knew Johnnie Gallegher
lived with her but thought it best to ignore the fact. She saw
that except for the peas and a pan of corn pone there was no other
food being prepared.

"Haven't you got anything else for these men?"

"No'm."

"Haven't you got any side meat in these peas?"

"No'm."

"No boiling bacon in the peas? But black-eyed peas are no good
without bacon. There's no strength to them. Why isn't there any
bacon?"

"Mist' Johnnie, he say dar ain' no use puttin' in no side meat."

"You'll put bacon in. Where do you keep your supplies?"

The negro woman rolled frightened eyes toward the small closet that
served as a pantry and Scarlett threw the door open. There was an
open barrel of cornmeal on the floor, a small sack of flour, a
pound of coffee, a little sugar, a gallon jug of sorghum and two
hams. One of the hams sitting on the shelf had been recently
cooked and only one or two slices had been cut from it. Scarlett
turned in a fury on Johnnie Gallegher and met his coldly angry
gaze.

"Where are the five sacks of white flour I sent out last week? And
the sugar sack and the coffee? And I had five hams sent and ten
pounds of side meat and God knows how many bushels of yams and
Irish potatoes. Well, where are they? You can't have used them
all in a week if you fed the men five meals a day. You've sold
them! That's what you've done, you thief! Sold my good supplies
and put the money in your pocket and fed these men on dried peas
and corn pone. No wonder they look so thin. Get out of the way."

She stormed past him to the doorway.

"You, man, there on the end--yes, you! Come here!"

The man rose and walked awkwardly toward her, his shackles
clanking, and she saw that his bare ankles were red and raw from
the chafing of the iron.

"When did you last have ham?"

The man looked down at the ground.

"Speak up."

Still the man stood silent and abject. Finally he raised his eyes,
looked Scarlett in the face imploringly and dropped his gaze again.

"Scared to talk, eh? Well, go in the pantry and get that ham off
the shelf. Rebecca, give him your knife. Take it out to those men
and divide it up. Rebecca, make some biscuits and coffee for the
men. And serve plenty of sorghum. Start now, so I can see you do
it."

"Dat's Mist' Johnnie's privut flour an' coffee," Rebecca muttered
frightenedly.

"Mr. Johnnie's, my foot! I suppose it's his private ham too. You
do what I say. Get busy. Johnnie Gallegher, come out to the buggy
with me."

She stalked across the littered yard and climbed into the buggy,
noticing with grim satisfaction that the men were tearing at the
ham and cramming bits into their mouths voraciously. They looked
as if they feared it would be taken from them at any minute.

"You are a rare scoundrel!" she cried furiously to Johnnie as he
stood at the wheel, his hat pushed back from his lowering brow.
"And you can just hand over to me the price of my supplies. In the
future, I'll bring you provisions every day instead of ordering
them by the month. Then you can't cheat me."

"In the future I won't be here," said Johnnie Gallegher.

"You mean you are quitting!"

For a moment it was on Scarlett's hot tongue to cry: "Go and good
riddance!" but the cool hand of caution stopped her. If Johnnie
should quit, what would she do? He had been doubling the amount of
lumber Hugh turned out. And just now she had a big order, the
biggest she had ever had and a rush order at that. She had to get
that lumber into Atlanta. If Johnnie quit, whom would she get to
take over the mill?

"Yes, I'm quitting. You put me in complete charge here and you
told me that all you expected of me was as much lumber as I could
possibly get out. You didn't tell me how to run my business then
and I'm not aiming to have you start now. How I get the lumber out
is no affair of yours. You can't complain that I've fallen down on
my bargain. I've made money for you and I've earned my salary--and
what I could pick up on the side, too. And here you come out here,
interfering, asking questions and breaking my authority in front of
the men. How can you expect me to keep discipline after this?
What if the men do get an occasional lick? The lazy scum deserve
worse. What if they ain't fed up and pampered? They don't deserve
nothing better. Either you tend to your business and let me tend
to mine or I quit tonight."

His hard little face looked flintier than ever and Scarlett was in
a quandary. If he quit tonight, what would she do? She couldn't
stay here all night guarding the convicts!

Something of her dilemma showed in her eyes for Johnnie's
expression changed subtly and some of the hardness went out of his
face. There was an easy agreeable note in his voice when he spoke.

"It's getting late, Mrs. Kennedy, and you'd better be getting on
home. We ain't going to fall out over a little thing like this,
are we? S'pose you take ten dollars out of my next month's wages
and let's call it square."

Scarlett's eyes went unwillingly to the miserable group gnawing on
the ham and she thought of the sick man lying in the windy shack.
She ought to get rid of Johnnie Gallegher. He was a thief and a
brutal man. There was no telling what he did to the convicts when
she wasn't there. But, on the other hand, he was smart and, God
knows, she needed a smart man. Well, she couldn't part with him
now. He was making money for her. She'd just have to see to it
that the convicts got their proper rations in the future.

"I'll take twenty dollars out of your wages," she said shortly,
"and I'll be back and discuss the matter further in the morning."

She picked up the reins. But she knew there would be no further
discussion. She knew that the matter had ended there and she knew
Johnnie knew it.

As she drove off down the path to the Decatur road her conscience
battled with her desire for money. She knew she had no business
exposing human lives to the hard little man's mercies. If he
should cause the death of one of them she would be as guilty as he
was, for she had kept him in charge after learning of his
brutalities. But, on the other hand--well, on the other hand, men
had no business getting to be convicts. If they broke laws and got
caught, then they deserved what they got. This partly salved her
conscience but as she drove down the road the dull thin faces of
the convicts would keep coming back into her mind.

"Oh, I'll think of them later," she decided, and pushed the thought
into the lumber room of her mind and shut the door upon it.



The sun had completely gone when she reached the bend in the road
above Shantytown and the woods about her were dark. With the
disappearance of the sun, a bitter chill had fallen on the twilight
world and a cold wind blew through the dark woods, making the bare
boughs crack and the dead leaves rustle. She had never been out
this late by herself and she was uneasy and wished herself home.

Big Sam was nowhere to be seen and, as she drew rein to wait for
him, she worried about his absence, fearing the Yankees might have
already picked him up. Then she heard footsteps coming up the path
from the settlement and a sigh of relief went through her lips.
She'd certainly dress Sam down for keeping her waiting.

But it wasn't Sam who came round the bend.

It was a big ragged white man and a squat black negro with
shoulders and chest like a gorilla. Swiftly she flapped the reins
on the horse's back and clutched the pistol. The horse started to
trot and suddenly shied as the white man threw up his hand.

"Lady," he said, "can you give me a quarter? I'm sure hungry."

"Get out of the way," she answered, keeping her voice as steady as
she could. "I haven't got any money. Giddap."

With a sudden swift movement the man's hand was on the horse's
bridle.

"Grab her!" he shouted to the negro. "She's probably got her money
in her bosom!"

What happened next was like a nightmare to Scarlett, and it all
happened so quickly. She brought up her pistol swiftly and some
instinct told her not to fire at the white man for fear of shooting
the horse. As the negro came running to the buggy, his black face
twisted in a leering grin, she fired point-blank at him. Whether
or not she hit him, she never knew, but the next minute the pistol
was wrenched from her hand by a grasp that almost broke her wrist.
The negro was beside her, so close that she could smell the rank
odor of him as he tried to drag her over the buggy side. With her
one free hand she fought madly, clawing at his face, and then she
felt his big hand at her throat and, with a ripping noise, her
basque was torn open from neck to waist. Then the black hand
fumbled between her breasts, and terror and revulsion such as she
had never known came over her and she screamed like an insane
woman.

"Shut her up! Drag her out!" cried the white man, and the black
hand fumbled across Scarlett's face to her mouth. She bit as
savagely as she could and then screamed again, and through her
screaming she heard the white man swear and realized that there was
a third man in the dark road. The black hand dropped from her
mouth and the negro leaped away as Big Sam charged at him.

"Run, Miss Scarlett!" yelled Sam, grappling with the negro; and
Scarlett, shaking and screaming, clutched up the reins and whip and
laid them both over the horse. It went off at a jump and she felt
the wheels pass over something soft, something resistant. It was
the white man who lay in the road where Sam had knocked him down.

Maddened by terror, she lashed the horse again and again and it
struck a gait that made the buggy rock and sway. Through her
terror she was conscious of the sound of feet running behind her
and she screamed at the horse to go faster. If that black ape got
her again, she would die before he even got his hands upon her.

A voice yelled behind her: "Miss Scarlett! Stop!"

Without slacking, she looked trembling over her shoulder and saw
Big Sam racing down the road behind her, his long legs working like
hard-driven pistons. She drew rein as he came up and he flung
himself into the buggy, his big body crowding her to one side.
Sweat and blood were streaming down his face as he panted:

"Is you hu't? Did dey hu't you?"

She could not speak, but seeing the direction of his eyes and their
quick averting, she realized that her basque was open to the waist
and her bare bosom and corset cover were showing. With a shaking
hand she clutched the two edges together and bowing her head began
to cry in terrified sobs.

"Gimme dem lines," said Sam, snatching the reins from her. "Hawse,
mek tracks!"

The whip cracked and the startled horse went off at a wild gallop
that threatened to throw the buggy into the ditch.

"Ah hope Ah done kill dat black baboon. But Ah din' wait ter fine
out," he panted. "But ef he hahmed you, Miss Scarlett, Ah'll go
back an' mek sho of it."

"No--no--drive on quickly," she sobbed.



CHAPTER XLV


That night when Frank deposited her and Aunt Pitty and the children
at Melanie's and rode off down the street with Ashley, Scarlett
could have burst with rage and hurt. How could he go off to a
political meeting on this of all nights in the world? A political
meeting! And on the same night when she had been attacked, when
anything might have happened to her! It was unfeeling and selfish
of him. But then, he had taken the whole affair with maddening
calm, ever since Sam had carried her sobbing into the house, her
basque gaping to the waist. He hadn't clawed his beard even once
when she cried out her story. He had just questioned gently:
"Sugar, are you hurt--or just scared?"

Wrath mingling with her tears she had been unable to answer and Sam
had volunteered that she was just scared.

"Ah got dar fo' dey done mo'n t'ar her dress."

"You're a good boy, Sam, and I won't forget what you've done. If
there's anything I can do for you--"

"Yassah, you kin sen' me ter Tara, quick as you kin. De Yankees is
affer me."

Frank had listened to this statement calmly too, and had asked no
questions. He had looked very much as he did the night Tony came
beating on their door, as though this was an exclusively masculine
affair and one to be handled with a minimum of words and emotions.

"You go get in the buggy. I'll have Peter drive you as far as
Rough and Ready tonight and you can hide in the woods till morning
and then catch the train to Jonesboro. It'll be safer. . . . Now,
Sugar, stop crying. It's all over now and you aren't really hurt.
Miss Pitty, could I have your smelling salts? And Mammy, fetch
Miss Scarlett a glass of wine."

Scarlett had burst into renewed tears, this time tears of rage.
She wanted comforting, indignation, threats of vengeance. She
would even have preferred him storming at her, saying that this was
just what he had warned her would happen--anything rather than have
him take it all so casually and treat her danger as a matter of
small moment. He was nice and gentle, of course, but in an absent
way as if he had something far more important on his mind.

And that important thing had turned out to be a small political
meeting!

She could hardly believe her ears when he told her to change her
dress and get ready for him to escort her over to Melanie's for the
evening. He must know how harrowing her experience had been, must
know she did not want to spend an evening at Melanie's when her
tired body and jangled nerves cried out for the warm relaxation of
bed and blankets--with a hot brick to make her toes tingle and a
hot toddy to soothe her fears. If he really loved her, nothing
could have forced him from her side on this of all nights. He
would have stayed home and held her hand and told her over and over
that he would have died if anything had happened to her. And when
he came home tonight and she had him alone, she would certainly
tell him so.

Melanie's small parlor looked as serene as it usually did on nights
when Frank and Ashley were away and the women gathered together to
sew. The room was warm and cheerful in the firelight. The lamp on
the table shed a quiet yellow glow on the four smooth heads bent to
their needlework. Four skirts billowed modestly, eight small feet
were daintily placed on low hassocks. The quiet breathing of Wade,
Ella and Beau came through the open door of the nursery. Archie
sat on a stool by the hearth, his back against the fireplace, his
cheek distended with tobacco, whittling industriously on a bit of
wood. The contrast between the dirty, hairy old man and the four
neat, fastidious ladies was as great as though he were a grizzled,
vicious old watchdog and they four small kittens.

Melanie's soft voice, tinged with indignation, went on and on as
she told of the recent outburst of temperament on the part of the
Lady Harpists. Unable to agree with the Gentlemen's Glee Club as
to the program for their next recital, the ladies had waited on
Melanie that afternoon and announced their intention of withdrawing
completely from the Musical Circle. It had taken all of Melanie's
diplomacy to persuade them to defer their decision.

Scarlett, overwrought, could have screamed: "Oh, damn the Lady
Harpists!" She wanted to talk about her dreadful experience. She
was bursting to relate it in detail, so she could ease her own
fright by frightening the others. She wanted to tell how brave she
had been, just to assure herself by the sound of her own words that
she had, indeed, been brave. But every time she brought up the
subject, Melanie deftly steered the conversation into other and
innocuous channels. This irritated Scarlett almost beyond
endurance. They were as mean as Frank.

How could they be so calm and placid when she had just escaped so
terrible a fate? They weren't even displaying common courtesy in
denying her the relief of talking about it.

The events of the afternoon had shaken her more than she cared to
admit, even to herself. Every time she thought of that malignant
black face peering at her from the shadows of the twilight forest
road, she fell to trembling. When she thought of the black hand at
her bosom and what would have happened if Big Sam had not appeared,
she bent her head lower and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. The
longer she sat silent in the peaceful room, trying to sew,
listening to Melanie's voice, the tighter her nerves stretched.
She felt that at any moment she would actually hear them break with
the same pinging sound a banjo string makes when it snaps.

Archie's whittling annoyed her and she frowned at him. Suddenly it
seemed odd that he should be sitting there occupying himself with a
piece of wood. Usually he lay flat on the sofa, during the
evenings when he was on guard, and slept and snored so violently
that his long beard leaped into the air with each rumbling breath.
It was odder still that neither Melanie nor India hinted to him
that he should spread a paper on the floor to catch his litter of
shavings. He had already made a perfect mess on the hearth rug but
they did not seem to have noticed it.

While she watched him, Archie turned suddenly toward the fire and
spat a stream of tobacco juice on it with such vehemence that
India, Melanie and Pitty leaped as though a bomb had exploded.

"NEED you expectorate so loudly?" cried India in a voice that
cracked with nervous annoyance. Scarlett looked at her in surprise
for India was always so self-contained.

Archie gave her look for look.

"I reckon I do," he answered coldly and spat again. Melanie gave a
little frowning glance at India.

"I was always so glad dear Papa didn't chew," began Pitty, and
Melanie, her frown creasing deeper, swung on her and spoke sharper
words than Scarlett had ever heard her speak.

"Oh, do hush, Auntie! You're so tactless."

"Oh, dear!" Pitty dropped her sewing in her lap and her mouth
pressed up in hurt. "I declare, I don't know what ails you all
tonight. You and India are just as jumpy and cross as two old
sticks."

No one answered her. Melanie did not even apologize for her
crossness but went back to her sewing with small violence.

"You're taking stitches an inch long," declared Pitty with some
satisfaction. "You'll have to take every one of them out. What's
the matter with you?"

But Melanie still did not answer.

Was there anything the matter with them, Scarlett wondered? Had
she been too absorbed with her own fears to notice? Yes, despite
Melanie's attempts to make the evening appear like any one of fifty
they had all spent together, there was a difference due to their
alarm and shock at what had happened that afternoon. Scarlett
stole glances at her companions and intercepted a look from India.
It discomforted her because it was a long, measuring glance that
carried in its cold depths something stronger than hate, something
more insulting than contempt.

"As though she thought I was to blame for what happened," Scarlett
thought indignantly.

India turned from her to Archie and, all annoyance at him gone from
her face, gave him a look of veiled anxious inquiry. But he did
not meet her eyes. He did however look at Scarlett, staring at her
in the same cold hard way India had done.

Silence fell dully in the room as Melanie did not take up the
conversation again and, in the silence, Scarlett heard the rising
wind outside. It suddenly began to be a most unpleasant evening.
Now she began to feel the tension in the air and she wondered if it
had been present all during the evening--and she too upset to
notice it. About Archie's face there was an alert waiting look and
his tufted, hairy old ears seemed pricked up like a lynx's. There
was a severely repressed uneasiness about Melanie and India that
made them raise their heads from their sewing at each sound of
hooves in the road, at each groan of bare branches under the
wailing wind, at each scuffing sound of dry leaves tumbling across
the lawn. They started at each soft snap of burning logs on the
hearth as if they were stealthy footsteps.

Something was wrong and Scarlett wondered what it was. Something
was afoot and she did not know about it. A glance at Aunt Pitty's
plump guileless face, screwed up in a pout, told her that the old
lady was as ignorant as she. But Archie and Melanie and India
knew. In the silence she could almost feel the thoughts of India
and Melanie whirling as madly as squirrels in a cage. They knew
something, were waiting for something, despite their efforts to
make things appear as usual. And their inner unease communicated
itself to Scarlett, making her more nervous than before. Handling
her needle awkwardly, she jabbed it into her thumb and with a
little scream of pain and annoyance that made them all jump, she
squeezed it until a bright red drop appeared.

"I'm just too nervous to sew," she declared, throwing her mending
to the floor. "I'm nervous enough to scream. I want to go home
and go to bed. And Frank knew it and he oughtn't to have gone out.
He talks, talks, talks about protecting women against darkies and
Carpetbaggers and when the time comes for him to do some
protecting, where is he? At home, taking care of me? No, indeed,
he's gallivanting around with a lot of other men who don't do
anything but talk and--"

Her snapping eyes came to rest on India's face and she paused.
India was breathing fast and her pale lashless eyes were fastened
on Scarlett's face with a deadly coldness.

"If it won't pain you too much, India," she broke off sarcastically,
"I'd be much obliged if you'd tell me why you've been staring at me
all evening. Has my face turned green or something?"

"It won't pain me to tell you. I'll do it with pleasure," said
India and her eyes glittered. "I hate to see you underrate a fine
man like Mr. Kennedy when, if you knew--"

"India!" said Melanie warningly, her hands clenching on her sewing.

"I think I know my husband better than you do," said Scarlett, the
prospect of a quarrel, the first open quarrel she had ever had with
India, making her spirits rise and her nervousness depart.
Melanie's eyes caught India's and reluctantly India closed her
lips. But almost instantly she spoke again and her voice was cold
with hate.

"You make me sick, Scarlett O'Hara, talking about being protected!
You don't care about being protected! If you did you'd never have
exposed yourself as you have done all these months, prissing
yourself about this town, showing yourself off to strange men,
hoping they'll admire you! What happened to you this afternoon was
just what you deserved and if there was any justice you'd have
gotten worse."

"Oh, India, hush!" cried Melanie.

"Let her talk," cried Scarlett. "I'm enjoying it. I always knew
she hated me and she was too much of a hypocrite to admit it. If
she thought anyone would admire her, she'd be walking the streets
naked from dawn till dark."

India was on her feet, her lean body quivering with insult.

"I do hate you," she said in a clear but trembling voice. "But it
hasn't been hypocrisy that's kept me quiet. It's something you
can't understand, not possessing any--any common courtesy, common
good breeding. It's the realization that if all of us don't hang
together and submerge our own small hates, we can't expect to beat
the Yankees. But you--you--you've done all you could to lower the
prestige of decent people--working and bringing shame on a good
husband, giving Yankees and riffraff the right to laugh at us and
make insulting remarks about our lack of gentility. Yankees don't
know that you aren't one of us and have never been. Yankees
haven't sense enough to know that you haven't any gentility. And
when you've ridden about the woods exposing yourself to attack,
you've exposed every well-behaved woman in town to attack by
putting temptation in the ways of darkies and mean white trash.
And you've put our men folks' lives in danger because they've got
to--"

"My God, India!" cried Melanie and even in her wrath, Scarlett was
stunned to hear Melanie take the Lord's name in vain. "You must
hush! She doesn't know and she--you must hush! You promised--"

"Oh, girls!" pleaded Miss Pittypat, her lips trembling.

"What don't I know?" Scarlett was on her feet, furious, facing the
coldly blazing India and the imploring Melanie.

"Guinea hens," said Archie suddenly and his voice was contemptuous.
Before anyone could rebuke him, his grizzled head went up sharply
and he rose swiftly. "Somebody comin' up the walk. 'Tain't Mr.
Wilkes neither. Cease your cackle."

There was male authority in his voice and the women stood suddenly
silent, anger fading swiftly from their faces as he stumped across
the room to the door.

"Who's thar?" he questioned before the caller even knocked.

"Captain Butler. Let me in."

Melanie was across the floor so swiftly that her hoops swayed up
violently, revealing her pantalets to the knees, and before Archie
could put his hand on the knob she flung the door open. Rhett
Butler stood in the doorway, his black slouch hat low over his
eyes, the wild wind whipping his cape about him in snapping folds.
For once his good manners had deserted him. He neither took off
his hat nor spoke to the others in the room. He had eyes for no
one but Melanie and he spoke abruptly without greeting.

"Where have they gone? Tell me quickly. It's life or death."

Scarlett and Pitty, startled and bewildered, looked at each other
in wonderment and, like a lean old cat, India streaked across the
room to Melanie's side.

"Don't tell him anything," she cried swiftly. "He's a spy, a
Scallawag!"

Rhett did not even favor her with a glance.

"Quickly, Mrs. Wilkes! There may still be time."

Melanie seemed in a paralysis of terror and only stared into his
face.

"What on earth--" began Scarlett.

"Shet yore mouth," directed Archie briefly. "You too, Miss Melly.
Git the hell out of here, you damned Scallawag."

"No, Archie, no!" cried Melanie and she put a shaking hand on
Rhett's arm as though to protect him from Archie. "What has
happened? How did--how did you know?"

On Rhett's dark face impatience fought with courtesy.

"Good God, Mrs. Wilkes, they've all been under suspicion since the
beginning--only they've been too clever--until tonight! How do I
know? I was playing poker tonight with two drunken Yankee captains
and they let it out. The Yankees knew there'd be trouble tonight
and they've prepared for it. The fools have walked into a trap."

For a moment it was as though Melanie swayed under the impact of a
heavy blow and Rhett's arm went around her waist to steady her.

"Don't tell him! He's trying to trap you!" cried India, glaring at
Rhett. "Didn't you hear him say he'd been with Yankee officers
tonight?"

Still Rhett did not look at her. His eyes were bent insistently on
Melanie's white face.

"Tell me. Where did they go? Have they a meeting place?"

Despite her fear and incomprehension, Scarlett thought she had
never seen a blanker, more expressionless face than Rhett's but
evidently Melanie saw something else, something that made her give
her trust. She straightened her small body away from the steadying
arm and said quietly but with a voice that shook:

"Out the Decatur road near Shantytown. They meet in the cellar of
the old Sullivan plantation--the one that's half-burned."

"Thank you. I'll ride fast. When the Yankees come here, none of
you know anything."

He was gone so swiftly, his black cape melting into the night, that
they could hardly realize he had been there at all until they heard
the spattering of gravel and the mad pounding of a horse going off
at full gallop.

"The Yankees coming here?" cried Pitty and, her small feet turning
under her, she collapsed on the sofa, too frightened for tears.

"What's it all about? What did he mean? If you don't tell me I'll
go crazy!" Scarlett laid hands on Melanie and shook her violently
as if by force she could shake an answer from her.

"Mean? It means you've probably been the cause of Ashley's and Mr.
Kennedy's death!" In spite of the agony of fear there was a note
of triumph in India's voice. "Stop shaking Melly. She's going to
faint."

"No, I'm not," whispered Melanie, clutching the back of a chair.

"My God, my God! I don't understand! Kill Ashley? Please,
somebody tell me--"

Archie's voice, like a rusty hinge, cut through Scarlett's words.

"Set down," he ordered briefly. "Pick up yore sewin'. Sew like
nothin' had happened. For all we know, the Yankees might have been
spyin' on this house since sundown. Set down, I say, and sew."

Trembling they obeyed, even Pitty picking up a sock and holding it
in shaking fingers while her eyes, wide as a frightened child's
went around the circle for an explanation.

"Where is Ashley? What has happened to him, Melly?" cried
Scarlett.

"Where's your husband? Aren't you interested in him?" India's
pale eyes blazed with insane malice as she crumpled and
straightened the torn towel she had been mending.

"India, please!" Melanie had mastered her voice but her white,
shaken face and tortured eyes showed the strain under which she was
laboring. "Scarlett, perhaps we should have told you but--but--you
had been through so much this afternoon that we--that Frank didn't
think--and you were always so outspoken against the Klan--"

"The Klan--"

At first, Scarlett spoke the word as if she had never heard it
before and had no comprehension of its meaning and then:

"The Klan!" she almost screamed it. "Ashley isn't in the Klan!
Frank can't be! Oh, he promised me!"

"Of course, Mr. Kennedy is in the Klan and Ashley, too, and all the
men we know," cried India. "They are men, aren't they? And white
men and Southerners. You should have been proud of him instead of
making him sneak out as though it were something shameful and--"

"You all have known all along and I didn't--"

"We were afraid it would upset you," said Melanie sorrowfully.

"Then that's where they go when they're supposed to be at the
political meetings? Oh, he promised me! Now, the Yankees will
come and take my mills and the store and put him in jail--oh, what
did Rhett Butler mean?"

India's eyes met Melanie's in wild fear. Scarlett rose, flinging
her sewing down.

"If you don't tell me, I'm going downtown and find out. I'll ask
everybody I see until I find--"

"Set," said Archie, fixing her with his eye. "I'll tell you.
Because you went gallivantin' this afternoon and got yoreself into
trouble through yore own fault, Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Kennedy and the
other men are out tonight to kill that thar nigger and that thar
white man, if they can catch them, and wipe out that whole
Shantytown settlement. And if what that Scallawag said is true,
the Yankees suspected sumpin' or got wind somehow and they've sont
out troops to lay for them. And our men have walked into a trap.
And if what Butler said warn't true, then he's a spy and he is
goin' to turn them up to the Yankees and they'll git kilt just the
same. And if he does turn them up, then I'll kill him, if it's the
last deed of m' life. And if they ain't kilt, then they'll all
have to light out of here for Texas and lay low and maybe never
come back. It's all yore fault and thar's blood on yore hands."

Anger wiped out the fear from Melanie's face as she saw
comprehension come slowly across Scarlett's face and then horror
follow swiftly. She rose and put her hand on Scarlett's shoulder.

"Another such word and you go out of this house, Archie," she said
sternly. "It's not her fault. She only did--did what she felt she
had to do. And our men did what they felt they had to do. People
must do what they must do. We don't all think alike or act alike
and it's wrong to--to judge others by ourselves. How can you and
India say such cruel things when her husband as well as mine may
be--may be--"

"Hark!" interrupted Archie softly. "Set, Ma'm. Thar's horses."

Melanie sank into a chair, picked up one of Ashley's shirts and,
bowing her head over it, unconsciously began to tear the frills
into small ribbons.

The sound of hooves grew louder as horses trotted up to the house.
There was the jangling of bits and the strain of leather and the
sound of voices. As the hooves stopped in front of the house, one
voice rose above the others in a command and the listeners heard
feet going through the side yard toward the back porch. They felt
that a thousand inimical eyes looked at them through the unshaded
front window and the four women, with fear in their hearts, bent
their heads and plied their needles. Scarlett's heart screamed in
her breast: "I've killed Ashley! I've killed him!" And in that
wild moment she did not even think that she might have killed Frank
too. She had no room in her mind for any picture save that of
Ashley, lying at the feet of Yankee cavalrymen, his fair hair
dappled with blood.

As the harsh rapid knocking sounded at the door, she looked at
Melanie and saw come over the small, strained face a new
expression, an expression as blank as she had just seen on Rhett
Butler's face, the bland blank look of a poker player bluffing a
game with only two deuces.

"Archie, open the door," she said quietly.

Slipping his knife into his boot top and loosening the pistol in
his trouser band, Archie stumped over to the door and flung it
open. Pitty gave a little squeak, like a mouse who feels the trap
snap down, as she saw massed in the doorway, a Yankee captain and a
squad of bluecoats. But the others said nothing. Scarlett saw
with the faintest feeling of relief that she knew this officer. He
was Captain Tom Jaffery, one of Rhett's friends. She had sold him
lumber to build his house. She knew him to be a gentleman.
Perhaps, as he was a gentleman, he wouldn't drag them away to
prison. He recognized her instantly and, taking off his hat,
bowed, somewhat embarrassed.

"Good evening, Mrs. Kennedy. And which of you ladies is Mrs.
Wilkes?"

"I am Mrs. Wilkes," answered Melanie, rising and for all her
smallness, dignity flowed from her. "And to what do I owe this
intrusion?"

The eyes of the captain flickered quickly about the room, resting
for an instant on each face, passing quickly from their faces to
the table and the hat rack as though looking for signs of male
occupancy.

"I should like to speak to Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Kennedy, if you
please."

"They are not here," said Melanie, a chill in her soft voice.

"Are you sure?"

"Don't you question Miz Wilkes' word," said Archie, his beard
bristling.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Wilkes. I meant no disrespect. If you
give me your word, I will not search the house."

"You have my word. But search if you like. They are at a meeting
downtown at Mr. Kennedy's store."

"They are not at the store. There was no meeting tonight,"
answered the captain grimly. "We will wait outside until they
return."

He bowed briefly and went out, closing the door behind him. Those
in the house heard a sharp order, muffled by the wind: "Surround
the house. A man at each window and door." There was a tramping
of feet. Scarlett checked a start of terror as she dimly saw
bearded faces peering in the windows at them. Melanie sat down and
with a hand that did not tremble reached for a book on the table.
It was a ragged copy of Les Miserables, that book which caught the
fancy of the Confederate soldiers. They had read it by camp-fire
light and took some grim pleasure in calling it "Lee's Miserables."
She opened it at the middle and began to read in a clear monotonous
voice.

"Sew," commanded Archie in a hoarse whisper and the three women,
nerved by Melanie's cool voice, picked up their sewing and bowed
their heads.

How long Melanie read beneath that circle of watching eyes,
Scarlett never knew but it seemed hours. She did not even hear a
word that Melanie read. Now she was beginning to think of Frank as
well as Ashley. So this was the explanation of his apparent calm
this evening! He had promised her he would have nothing to do with
the Klan. Oh, this was just the kind of trouble she had feared
would come upon them! All the work of this last year would go for
nothing. All her struggles and fears and labors in rain and cold
had been wasted. And who would have thought that spiritless old
Frank would get himself mixed up in the hot-headed doings of the
Klan? Even at this minute, he might be dead. And if he wasn't
dead and the Yankees caught him, he'd be hanged. And Ashley, too!

Her nails dug into her palms until four bright-red crescents
showed. How could Melanie read on and on so calmly when Ashley was
in danger of being hanged? When he might be dead? But something
in the cool soft voice reading the sorrows of Jean Valjean steadied
her, kept her from leaping to her feet and screaming.

Her mind fled back to the night Tony Fontaine had come to them,
hunted, exhausted, without money. If he had not reached their
house and received money and a fresh horse, he would have been
hanged long since. If Frank and Ashley were not dead at this very
minute, they were in Tony's position, only worse. With the house
surrounded by soldiers they couldn't come home and get money and
clothes without being captured. And probably every house up and
down the street had a similar guard of Yankees, so they could not
apply to friends for aid. Even now they might be riding wildly
through the night, bound for Texas.

But Rhett--perhaps Rhett had reached them in time. Rhett always
had plenty of cash in his pocket. Perhaps he would lend them
enough to see them through. But that was queer. Why should Rhett
bother himself about Ashley's safety? Certainly he disliked him,
certainly he professed a contempt for him. Then why-- But this
riddle was swallowed up in a renewed fear for the safety of Ashley
and Frank.

"Oh, it's all my fault!" she wailed to herself. "India and Archie
spoke the truth. It's all my fault. But I never thought either of
them was foolish enough to join the Klan! And I never thought
anything would really happen to me! But I couldn't have done
otherwise. Melly spoke the truth. People have to do what they
have to do. And I had to keep the mills going! I had to have
money! And now I'll probably lose it all and somehow it's all my
fault!"

After a long time Melanie's voice faltered, trailed off and was
silent. She turned her head toward the window and stared as though
no Yankee soldier stared back from behind the glass. The others
raised their heads, caught by her listening pose, and they too
listened.

There was a sound of horses' feet and of singing, deadened by the
closed windows and doors, borne away by the wind but still
recognizable. It was the most hated and hateful of all songs, the
song about Sherman's men "Marching through Georgia" and Rhett
Butler was singing it.

Hardly had he finished the first lines when two other voices,
drunken voices, assailed him, enraged foolish voices that stumbled
over words and blurred them together. There was a quick command
from Captain Jaffery on the front porch and the rapid tramp of
feet. But even before these sounds arose, the ladies looked at one
another stunned. For the drunken voices expostulating with Rhett
were those of Ashley and Hugh Elsing.

Voices rose louder on the front walk, Captain Jaffery's curt and
questioning, Hugh's shrill with foolish laughter, Rhett's deep and
reckless and Ashley's queer, unreal, shouting: "What the hell!
What the hell!"

"That can't be Ashley!" thought Scarlett wildly. "He never gets
drunk! And Rhett--why, when Rhett's drunk he gets quieter and
quieter--never loud like that!"

Melanie rose and, with her, Archie rose. They heard the captain's
sharp voice: "These two men are under arrest." And Archie's hand
closed over his pistol butt.

"No," whispered Melanie firmly. "No. Leave it to me." There was
in her face the same look Scarlett had seen that day at Tara when
Melanie had stood at the top of the steps looking down at the dead
Yankee, her weak wrist weighed down by the heavy saber--a gentle
and timid soul nerved by circumstances to the caution and fury of a
tigress. She threw the front door open.

"Bring him in, Captain Butler," she called in a clear tone that bit
with venom. "I suppose you've gotten him intoxicated again. Bring
him in."

From the dark windy walk, the Yankee captain spoke: "I'm sorry,
Mrs. Wilkes, but your husband and Mr. Elsing are under arrest."

"Arrest? For what? For drunkenness? If everyone in Atlanta was
arrested for drunkenness, the whole Yankee garrison would be in
jail continually. Well, bring him in, Captain Butler--that is, if
you can walk yourself."

Scarlett's mind was not working quickly and for a brief moment
nothing made sense. She knew neither Rhett nor Ashley was drunk
and she knew Melanie knew they were not drunk. Yet here was
Melanie, usually so gentle and refined, screaming like a shrew and
in front of Yankees too, that both of them were too drunk to walk.

There was a short mumbled argument, punctuated with curses, and
uncertain feet ascended the stairs. In the doorway appeared
Ashley, white faced, his head lolling, his bright hair tousled, his
long body wrapped from neck to knees in Rhett's black cape. Hugh
Elsing and Rhett, none too steady on their feet, supported him on
either side and it was obvious he would have fallen to the floor
but for their aid. Behind them came the Yankee captain, his face a
study of mingled suspicion and amusement. He stood in the open
doorway with his men peering curiously over his shoulders and the
cold wind swept the house.

Scarlett, frightened, puzzled, glanced at Melanie and back to the
sagging Ashley and then half-comprehension came to her. She
started to cry out: "But he can't be drunk!" and bit back the
words. She realized she was witnessing a play, a desperate play on
which lives hinged. She knew she was not part of it nor was Aunt
Pitty but the others were and they were tossing cues to one another
like actors in an oft-rehearsed drama. She understood only half
but she understood enough to keep silent.

"Put him in the chair," cried Melanie indignantly. "And you,
Captain Butler, leave this house immediately! How dare you show
your face here after getting him in this condition again!"

The two men eased Ashley into a rocker and Rhett, swaying, caught
hold of the back of the chair to steady himself and addressed the
captain with pain in his voice.

"That's fine thanks I get, isn't it? For keeping the police from
getting him and bringing him home and him yelling and trying to
claw me!"

"And you, Hugh Elsing, I'm ashamed of you! What will your poor
mother say? Drunk and out with a--a Yankee-loving Scallawag like
Captain Butler! And, oh, Mr. Wilkes, how could you do such a
thing?"

"Melly, I ain't so very drunk," mumbled Ashley, and with the words
fell forward and lay face down on the table, his head buried in his
arms.

"Archie, take him to his room and put him to bed--as usual,"
ordered Melanie. "Aunt Pitty, please run and fix the bed and oo-
oh," she suddenly burst into tears. "Oh, how could he? After he
promised!"

Archie already had his arm under Ashley's shoulder and Pitty,
frightened and uncertain, was on her feet when the captain
interposed.

"Don't touch him. He's under arrest. Sergeant!"

As the sergeant stepped into the room, his rifle at trail, Rhett,
evidently trying to steady himself, put a hand on the captain's arm
and, with difficulty, focused his eyes.

"Tom, what you arresting him for? He ain't so very drunk. I've
seen him drunker."

"Drunk be damned," cried the captain. "He can lie in the gutter
for all I care. I'm no policeman. He and Mr. Elsing are under
arrest for complicity in a Klan raid at Shantytown tonight. A
nigger and a white man were killed. Mr. Wilkes was the ringleader
in it."

"Tonight?" Rhett began to laugh. He laughed so hard that he sat
down on the sofa and put his head in his hands. "Not tonight,
Tom," he said when he could speak. "These two have been with me
tonight--ever since eight o'clock when they were supposed to be at
the meeting."

"With you, Rhett? But--" A frown came over the captain's forehead
and he looked uncertainly at the snoring Ashley and his weeping
wife. "But--where were you?"

"I don't like to say," and Rhett shot a look of drunken cunning at
Melanie.

"You'd better say!"

"Le's go out on the porch and I'll tell you where we were."

"You'll tell me now."

"Hate to say it in front of ladies. If you ladies'll step out of
the room--"

"I won't go," cried Melanie, dabbing angrily at her eyes with her
handkerchief. "I have a right to know. Where was my husband?"

"At Belle Watling's sporting house," said Rhett, looking abashed.
"He was there and Hugh and Frank Kennedy and Dr. Meade and--and a
whole lot of them. Had a party. Big party. Champagne. Girls--"

"At--at Belle Watling's?"

Melanie's voice rose until it cracked with such pain that all eyes
turned frightenedly to her. Her hand went clutching at her bosom
and, before Archie could catch her, she had fainted. Then a hubbub
ensued, Archie picking her up, India running to the kitchen for
water, Pitty and Scarlett fanning her and slapping her wrists,
while Hugh Elsing shouted over and over: "Now you've done it! Now
you've done it!"

"Now it'll be all over town," said Rhett savagely. "I hope you're
satisfied, Tom. There won't be a wife in Atlanta who'll speak to
her husband tomorrow."

"Rhett, I had no idea--" Though the chill wind was blowing through
the open door on his back, the captain was perspiring. "Look here!
You take an oath they were at--er--at Belle's?"

"Hell, yes," growled Rhett. "Go ask Belle herself if you don't
believe me. Now, let me carry Mrs. Wilkes to her room. Give her
to me, Archie. Yes, I can carry her. Miss Pitty, go ahead with a
lamp."

He took Melanie's limp body from Archie's arms with ease.

"You get Mr. Wilkes to bed, Archie. I don't want to ever lay eyes
or hands on him again after this night."

Pitty's hand trembled so that the lamp was a menace to the safety
of the house but she held it and trotted ahead toward the dark
bedroom. Archie, with a grunt, got an arm under Ashley and raised
him.

"But--I've got to arrest these men!"

Rhett turned in the dim hallway.

"Arrest them in the morning then. They can't run away in this
condition--and I never knew before that it was illegal to get drunk
in a sporting house. Good God, Tom, there are fifty witnesses to
prove they were at Belle's."

"There are always fifty witnesses to prove a Southerner was
somewhere he wasn't," said the captain morosely. "You come with
me, Mr. Elsing. I'll parole Mr. Wilkes on the word of--"

"I am Mr. Wilkes' sister. I will answer for his appearance," said
India coldly. "Now, will you please go? You've caused enough
trouble for one night."

"I regret it exceedingly." The captain bowed awkwardly. "I only
hope they can prove their presence at the--er--Miss--Mrs. Watling's
house. Will you tell your brother that he must appear before the
provost marshal tomorrow morning for questioning?"

India bowed coldly and, putting her hand upon the door knob,
intimated silently that his speedy retirement would be welcome.
The captain and the sergeant backed out, Hugh Elsing with them, and
she slammed the door behind them. Without even looking at
Scarlett, she went swiftly to each window and drew down the shade.
Scarlett, her knees shaking, caught hold of the chair in which
Ashley had been sitting to steady herself. Looking down at it, she
saw that there was a dark moist spot, larger than her hand, on the
cushion in the back of the chair. Puzzled, her hand went over it
and, to her horror, a sticky red wetness appeared on her palm.

"India," she whispered, "India, Ashley's--he's hurt."

"You fool! Did you think he was really drunk?"

India snapped down the last shade and started on flying feet for
the bedroom, with Scarlett close behind her, her heart in her
throat. Rhett's big body barred the doorway but, past his
shoulder, Scarlett saw Ashley lying white and still on the bed.
Melanie, strangely quick for one so recently in a faint, was
rapidly cutting off his blood-soaked shirt with embroidery
scissors. Archie held the lamp low over the bed to give light and
one of his gnarled fingers was on Ashley's wrist.

"Is he dead?" cried both girls together.

"No, just fainted from loss of blood. It's through his shoulder,"
said Rhett.

"Why did you bring him here, you fool?" cried India. "Let me get
to him! Let me pass! Why did you bring him here to be arrested?"

"He was too weak to travel. There was nowhere else to bring him,
Miss Wilkes. Besides--do you want him to be an exile like Tony
Fontaine? Do you want a dozen of your neighbors to live in Texas
under assumed names for the rest of their lives? There's a chance
that we may get them all off if Belle--"

"Let me pass!"

"No, Miss Wilkes. There's work for you. You must go for a doctor--
Not Dr. Meade. He's implicated in this and is probably explaining
to the Yankees at this very minute. Get some other doctor. Are you
afraid to go out alone at night?"

"No," said India, her pale eyes glittering. "I'm not afraid." She
caught up Melanie's hooded cape which was hanging on a hook in the
hall. "I'll go for old Dr. Dean." The excitement went out of her
voice as, with an effort, she forced calmness. "I'm sorry I called
you a spy and a fool. I did not understand. I'm deeply grateful
for what you've done for Ashley--but I despise you just the same."

"I appreciate frankness--and I thank you for it." Rhett bowed and
his lip curled down in an amused smile. "Now, go quickly and by
back ways and when you return do not come in this house if you see
signs of soldiers about."

India shot one more quick anguished look at Ashley, and, wrapping
her cape about her, ran lightly down the hall to the back door and
let herself out quietly into the night.

Scarlett, straining her eyes past Rhett, felt her heart beat again
as she saw Ashley's eyes open. Melanie snatched a folded towel
from the washstand rack and pressed it against his streaming
shoulder and he smiled up weakly, reassuringly into her face.
Scarlett felt Rhett's hard penetrating eyes upon her, knew that her
heart was plain upon her face, but she did not care. Ashley was
bleeding, perhaps dying and she who loved him had torn that hole
through his shoulder. She wanted to run to the bed, sink down
beside it and clasp him to her but her knees trembled so that she
could not enter the room. Hand at her mouth, she stared while
Melanie packed a fresh towel against his shoulder, pressing it hard
as though she could force back the blood into his body. But the
towel reddened as though by magic.

How could a man bleed so much and still live? But, thank God,
there was no bubble of blood at his lips--oh, those frothy red
bubbles, forerunners of death that she knew so well from the
dreadful day of the battle at Peachtree Creek when the wounded had
died on Aunt Pitty's lawn with bloody mouths.

"Brace up," said Rhett, and there was a hard, faintly jeering note
in his voice. "He won't die. Now, go take the lamp and hold it
for Mrs. Wilkes. I need Archie to run errands."

Archie looked across the lamp at Rhett.

"I ain't takin' no orders from you," he said briefly, shifting his
wad of tobacco to the other cheek.

"You do what he says," said Melanie sternly, "and do it quickly.
Do everything Captain Butler says. Scarlett, take the lamp."

Scarlett went forward and took the lamp, holding it in both hands
to keep from dropping it. Ashley's eyes had closed again. His
bare chest heaved up slowly and sank quickly and the red stream
seeped from between Melanie's small frantic fingers. Dimly she
heard Archie stump across the room to Rhett and heard Rhett's low
rapid words. Her mind was so fixed upon Ashley that of the first
half-whispered words of Rhett, she only heard: "Take my horse . . .
tied outside . . . ride like hell."

Archie mumbled some question and Scarlett heard Rhett reply: "The
old Sullivan plantation. You'll find the robes pushed up the
biggest chimney. Burn them."

"Um," grunted Archie.

"And there's two--men in the cellar. Pack them over the horse as
best you can and take them to that vacant lot behind Belle's--the
one between her house and the railroad tracks. Be careful. If
anyone sees you, you'll hang as well as the rest of us. Put them
in that lot and put pistols near them--in their hands. Here--take
mine."

Scarlett, looking across the room, saw Rhett reach under his coat
tails and produce two revolvers which Archie took and shoved into
his waist band.

"Fire one shot from each. It's got to appear like a plain case of
shooting. You understand?"

Archie nodded as if he understood perfectly and an unwilling gleam
of respect shone in his cold eye. But understanding was far from
Scarlett. The last half-hour had been so nightmarish that she felt
nothing would ever be plain and clear again. However, Rhett seemed
in perfect command of the bewildering situation and that was a
small comfort.

Archie turned to go and then swung about and his one eye went
questioningly to Rhett's face.

"Him?"

"Yes."

Archie grunted and spat on the floor.

"Hell to pay," he said as he stumped down the hall to the back
door.

Something in the last low interchange of words made a new fear and
suspicion rise up in Scarlett's breast like a chill ever-swelling
bubble. When that bubble broke--

"Where's Frank?" she cried.

Rhett came swiftly across the room to the bed, his big body
swinging as lightly and noiselessly as a cat's.

"All in good time," he said and smiled briefly. "Steady that lamp,
Scarlett. You don't want to burn Mr. Wilkes up. Miss Melly--"

Melanie looked up like a good little soldier awaiting a command and
so tense was the situation it did not occur to her that for the
first time Rhett was calling her familiarly by the name which only
family and old friends used.

"I beg your pardon, I mean, Mrs. Wilkes. . . ."

"Oh, Captain Butler, do not ask my pardon! I should feel honored
if you called me 'Melly' without the Miss! I feel as though you
were my--my brother or--or my cousin. How kind you are and how
clever! How can I ever thank you enough?"

"Thank you," said Rhett and for a moment he looked almost
embarrassed. "I should never presume so far, but Miss Melly," and
his voice was apologetic, "I'm sorry I had to say that Mr. Wilkes
was in Belle Watling's house. I'm sorry to have involved him and
the others in such a--a-- But I had to think fast when I rode away
from here and that was the only plan that occurred to me. I knew
my word would be accepted because I have so many friends among the
Yankee officers. They do me the dubious honor of thinking me
almost one of them because they know my--shall we call it my
'unpopularity'?--among my townsmen. And you see, I was playing
poker in Belle's bar earlier in the evening. There are a dozen
Yankee soldiers who can testify to that. And Belle and her girls
will gladly lie themselves black in the face and say Mr. Wilkes and
the others were--upstairs all evening. And the Yankees will
believe them. Yankees are queer that way. It won't occur to them
that women of--their profession are capable of intense loyalty or
patriotism. The Yankees wouldn't take the word of a single nice
Atlanta lady as to the whereabouts of the men who were supposed to
be at the meeting tonight but they will take the word of--fancy
ladies. And I think that between the word of honor of a Scallawag
and a dozen fancy ladies, we may have a chance of getting the men
off."

There was a sardonic grin on his face at the last words but it
faded as Melanie turned up to him a face that blazed with
gratitude.

"Captain Butler, you are so smart! I wouldn't have cared if you'd
said they were in hell itself tonight, if it saves them! For I
know and every one else who matters knows that my husband was never
in a dreadful place like that!"

"Well--" began Rhett awkwardly, "as a matter of fact, he was at
Belle's tonight."

Melanie drew herself up coldly.

"You can never make me believe such a lie!"

"Please, Miss Melly! Let me explain! When I got out to the old
Sullivan place tonight, I found Mr. Wilkes wounded and with him
were Hugh Elsing and Dr. Meade and old man Merriwether--"

"Not the old gentleman!" cried Scarlett.

"Men are never too old to be fools. And your Uncle Henry--"

"Oh, mercy!" cried Aunt Pitty.

"The others had scattered after the brush with the troops and the
crowd that stuck together had come to the Sullivan place to hide
their robes in the chimney and to see how badly Mr. Wilkes was
hurt. But for his wound, they'd be headed for Texas by now--all of
them--but he couldn't ride far and they wouldn't leave him. It was
necessary to prove that they had been somewhere instead of where
they had been, and so I took them by back ways to Belle Watling's."

"Oh--I see. I do beg your pardon for my rudeness, Captain Butler.
I see now it was necessary to take them there but-- Oh, Captain
Butler, people must have seen you going in!"

"No one saw us. We went in through a private back entrance that
opens on the railroad tracks. It's always dark and locked."

"Then how--?"

"I have a key," said Rhett laconically, and his eyes met Melanie's
evenly.

As the full impact of the meaning smote her, Melanie became so
embarrassed that she fumbled with the bandage until it slid off the
wound entirely.

"I did not mean to pry--" she said in a muffled voice, her white
face reddening, as she hastily pressed the towel back into place.

"I regret having to tell a lady such a thing."

"Then it's true!" thought Scarlett with an odd pang. "Then he does
live with that dreadful Watling creature! He does own her house!"

"I saw Belle and explained to her. We gave her a list of the men
who were out tonight and she and her girls will testify that they
were all in her house tonight. Then to make our exit more
conspicuous, she called the two desperadoes who keep order at her
place and had us dragged downstairs, fighting, and through the
barroom and thrown out into the street as brawling drunks who were
disturbing the place."

He grinned reminiscently. "Dr. Meade did not make a very
convincing drunk. It hurt his dignity to even be in such a place.
But your Uncle Henry and old man Merriwether were excellent. The
stage lost two great actors when they did not take up the drama.
They seemed to enjoy the affair. I'm afraid your Uncle Henry has a
black eye due to Mr. Merriwether's zeal for his part. He--"

The back door swung open and India entered, followed by old Dr.
Dean, his long white hair tumbled, his worn leather bag bulging
under his cape. He nodded briefly but without words to those
present and quickly lifted the bandage from Ashley's shoulder.

"Too high for the lung," he said. "If it hasn't splintered his
collar bone it's not so serious. Get me plenty of towels, ladies,
and cotton if you have it, and some brandy."

Rhett took the lamp from Scarlett and set it on the table as
Melanie and India sped about, obeying the doctor's orders.

"You can't do anything here. Come into the parlor by the fire."
He took her arm and propelled her from the room. There was a
gentleness foreign to him in both hand and voice. "You've had a
rotten day, haven't you?"

She allowed herself to be led into the front room and though she
stood on the hearth rug in front of the fire she began to shiver.
The bubble of suspicion in her breast was swelling larger now. It
was more than a suspicion. It was almost a certainty and a
terrible certainty. She looked up into Rhett's immobile face and
for a moment she could not speak. Then:

"Was Frank at--Belle Watling's?"

"No."

Rhett's voice was blunt.

"Archie's carrying him to the vacant lot near Belle's. He's dead.
Shot through the head."



CHAPTER XLVI


Few families in the north end of town slept that night for the news
of the disaster to the Klan, and Rhett's stratagem spread swiftly
on silent feet as the shadowy form of India Wilkes slipped through
back yards, whispered urgently through kitchen doors and slipped
away into the windy darkness. And in her path, she left fear and
desperate hope.

From without, houses looked black and silent and wrapped in sleep
but, within, voices whispered vehemently into the dawn. Not only
those involved in the night's raid but every member of the Klan was
ready for flight and in almost every stable along Peachtree Street,
horses stood saddled in the darkness, pistols in holsters and food
in saddlebags. All that prevented a wholesale exodus was India's
whispered message: "Captain Butler says not to run. The roads
will be watched. He has arranged with that Watling creature--" In
dark rooms men whispered: "But why should I trust that damned
Scallawag Butler? It may be a trap!" And women's voices implored:
"Don't go! If he saved Ashley and Hugh, he may save everybody. If
India and Melanie trust him--" And they half trusted and stayed
because there was no other course open to them.

Earlier in the night, the soldiers had knocked at a dozen doors and
those who could not or would not tell where they had been that
night were marched off under arrest. Rene Picard and one of Mrs.
Merriwether's nephews and the Simmons boys and Andy Bonnell were
among those who spent the night in jail. They had been in the ill-
starred foray but had separated from the others after the shooting.
Riding hard for home they were arrested before they learned of
Rhett's plan. Fortunately they all replied, to questions, that
where they had been that night was their own business and not that
of any damned Yankees. They had been locked up for further
questioning in the morning. Old man Merriwether and Uncle Henry
Hamilton declared shamelessly that they had spent the evening at
Belle Watling's sporting house and when Captain Jaffery remarked
irritably that they were too old for such goings on, they wanted to
fight him.

Belle Watling herself answered Captain Jaffery's summons, and
before he could make known his mission she shouted that the house
was closed for the night. A passel of quarrelsome drunks had
called in the early part of the evening and had fought one another,
torn the place up, broken her finest mirrors and so alarmed the
young ladies that all business had been suspended for the night.
But if Captain Jaffery wanted a drink; the bar was still open--

Captain Jaffery, acutely conscious of the grins of his men and
feeling helplessly that he was fighting a mist, declared angrily
that he wanted neither the young ladies nor a drink and demanded if
Belle knew the names of her destructive customers. Oh, yes, Belle
knew them. They were her regulars. They came every Wednesday
night and called themselves the Wednesday Democrats, though what
they meant by that she neither knew or cared. And if they didn't
pay for the damage to the mirrors in the upper hall, she was going
to have the law on them. She kept a respectable house and-- Oh,
their names? Belle unhesitatingly reeled off the names of twelve
under suspicion, Captain Jaffery smiled sourly.

"These damned Rebels are as efficiently organized as our Secret
Service," he said. "You and your girls will have to appear before
the provost marshal tomorrow."

"Will the provost make them pay for my mirrors?"

"To hell with your mirrors! Make Rhett Butler pay for them. He
owns the place, doesn't he?"

Before dawn, every ex-Confederate family in town knew everything.
And their negroes, who had been told nothing, knew everything too,
by that black grapevine telegraph system which defies white
understanding. Everyone knew the details of the raid, the killing
of Frank Kennedy and crippled Tommy Wellburn and how Ashley was
wounded in carrying Frank's body away.

Some of the feeling of bitter hatred the women bore Scarlett for
her share in the tragedy was mitigated by the knowledge that her
husband was dead and she knew it and could not admit it and have
the poor comfort of claiming his body. Until morning light
disclosed the bodies and the authorities notified her, she must
know nothing. Frank and Tommy, pistols in cold hands, lay
stiffening among the dead weeds in a vacant lot. And the Yankees
would say they killed each other in a common drunken brawl over a
girl in Belle's house. Sympathy ran high for Fanny, Tommy's wife,
who had just had a baby, but no one could slip through the darkness
to see her and comfort her because a squad of Yankees surrounded
the house, waiting for Tommy to return. And there was another
squad about Aunt Pitty's house, waiting for Frank.

Before dawn the news had trickled about that the military inquiry
would take place that day. The townspeople, heavy eyed from
sleeplessness and anxious waiting, knew that the safety of some of
their most prominent citizens rested on three things--the ability
of Ashley Wilkes to stand on his feet and appear before the
military board, as though he suffered nothing more serious than a
morning-after headache, the word of Belle Watling that these men
had been in her house all evening and the word of Rhett Butler that
he had been with them.

The town writhed at these last two! Belle Watling! To owe their
men's lives to her! It was intolerable! Women who had
ostentatiously crossed the street when they saw Belle coming,
wondered if she remembered and trembled for fear she did. The men
felt less humiliation at taking their lives from Belle than the
women did, for many of them thought her a good sort. But they were
stung that they must owe lives and freedom to Rhett Butler, a
speculator and a Scallawag. Belle and Rhett, the town's best-known
fancy woman and the town's most hated man. And they must be under
obligation to them.

Another thought that stung them to impotent wrath was the knowledge
that the Yankees and Carpetbaggers would laugh. Oh, how they would
laugh! Twelve of the town's most prominent citizens revealed as
habitual frequenters of Belle Watling's sporting house! Two of
them killed in a fight over a cheap little girl, others ejected
from the place as too drunk to be tolerated even by Belle and some
under arrest, refusing to admit they were there when everyone knew
they were there!

Atlanta was right in fearing that the Yankees would laugh. They
had squirmed too long beneath Southern coldness and contempt and
now they exploded with hilarity. Officers woke comrades and
retailed the news. Husbands roused wives at dawn and told them as
much as could be decently told to women. And the women, dressing
hastily, knocked on their neighbors' doors and spread the story.
The Yankee ladies were charmed with it all and laughed until tears
ran down their faces. This was Southern chivalry and gallantry for
you! Maybe those women who carried their heads so high and snubbed
all attempts at friendliness wouldn't be so uppity, now that
everyone knew where their husbands spent their time when they were
supposed to be at political meetings. Political meetings! Well,
that was funny!

But even as they laughed, they expressed regret for Scarlett and
her tragedy. After all, Scarlett was a lady and one of the few
ladies in Atlanta who were nice to Yankees. She had already won
their sympathy by the fact that she had to work because her husband
couldn't or wouldn't support her properly. Even though her husband
was a sorry one, it was dreadful that the poor thing should
discover he had been untrue to her. And it was doubly dreadful
that his death should occur simultaneously with the discovery of
his infidelity. After all, a poor husband was better than no
husband at all, and the Yankee ladies decided they'd be extra nice
to Scarlett. But the others, Mrs. Meade, Mrs. Merriwether, Mrs.
Elsing, Tommy Wellburn's widow and most of all, Mrs. Ashley Wilkes,
they'd laugh in their faces every time they saw them. That would
teach them a little courtesy.

Much of the whispering that went on in the dark rooms on the north
side of town that night was on this same subject. Atlanta ladies
vehemently told their husbands that they did not care a rap what
the Yankees thought. But inwardly they felt that running an Indian
gantlet would be infinitely preferable to suffering the ordeal of
Yankee grins and not being able to tell the truth about their
husbands.

Dr. Meade, beside himself with outraged dignity at the position
into which Rhett had jockeyed him and the others, told Mrs. Meade
that, but for the fact that it would implicate the others, he would
rather confess and be hanged than say he had been at Belle's house.

"It is an insult to you, Mrs. Meade," he fumed.

"But everyone will know you weren't there for--for--"

"The Yankees won't know. They'll have to believe it if we save our
necks. And they'll laugh. The very thought that anyone will
believe it and laugh infuriates me. And it insults you because--my
dear, I have always been faithful to you."

"I know that," and in the darkness Mrs. Meade smiled and slipped a
thin hand into the doctor's. "But I'd rather it were really true
than have one hair of your head in danger."

"Mrs. Meade, do you know what you are saying?" cried the doctor,
aghast at the unsuspected realism of his wife.

"Yes, I know. I've lost Darcy and I've lost Phil and you are all I
have and, rather than lose you, I'd have you take up your permanent
abode at that place."

"You are distrait! You cannot know what you are saying."

"You old fool," said Mrs. Meade tenderly and laid her head against
his sleeve.

Dr. Meade fumed into silence and stroked her cheek and then
exploded again. "And to be under obligation to that Butler man!
Hanging would be easy compared to that. No, not even if I owe him
my life, can I be polite to him. His insolence is monumental and
his shamelessness about his profiteering makes me boil. To owe my
life to a man who never went in the army--"

"Melly said he enlisted after Atlanta fell."

"It's a lie. Miss Melly will believe any plausible scoundrel. And
what I can't understand is why he is doing all this--going to all
this trouble. I hate to say it but--well, there's always been talk
about him and Mrs. Kennedy. I've seen them coming in from rides
together too often this last year. He must have done it because of
her."

"If it was because of Scarlett, he wouldn't have lifted his hand.
He'd have been glad to see Frank Kennedy hanged. I think it's
because of Melly--"

"Mrs. Meade, you can't be insinuating that there's ever been
anything between those two!"

"Oh, don't be silly! But she's always been unaccountably fond of
him ever since he tried to get Ashley exchanged during the war.
And I must say this for him, he never smiles in that nasty-nice way
when he's with her. He's just as pleasant and thoughtful as can
be--really a different man. You can tell by the way he acts with
Melly that he could be decent if he wanted to. Now, my idea of why
he's doing all this is--" She paused. "Doctor, you won't like my
idea."

"I don't like anything about this whole affair!"

"Well, I think he did it partly for Melly's sake but mostly because
he thought it would be a huge joke on us all. We've hated him so
much and showed it so plainly and now he's got us in a fix where
all of you have your choice of saying you were at that Watling
woman's house and shaming yourself and wives before the Yankees--or
telling the truth and getting hanged. And he knows we'll all be
under obligation to him and his--mistress and that we'd almost
rather be hanged than be obliged to them. Oh, I'll wager he's
enjoying it."

The doctor groaned. "He did look amused when he took us upstairs
in that place."

"Doctor," Mrs. Meade hesitated, "what did it look like?"

"What are you saying, Mrs. Meade?"

"Her house. What did it look like? Are there cut-glass
chandeliers? And red plush curtains and dozens of full-length gilt
mirrors? And were the girls--were they unclothed?"

"Good God!" cried the doctor, thunderstruck, for it had never
occurred to him that the curiosity of a chaste woman concerning her
unchaste sisters was so devouring. "How can you ask such immodest
questions? You are not yourself. I will mix you a sedative."

"I don't want a sedative. I want to know. Oh, dear, this is my
only chance to know what a bad house looks like and now you are
mean enough not to tell me!"

"I noticed nothing. I assure you I was too embarrassed at finding
myself in such a place to take note of my surroundings," said the
doctor formally, more upset at this unsuspected revelation of his
wife's character than he had been by all the previous events of the
evening. "If you will excuse me now, I will try to get some
sleep."

"Well, go to sleep then," she answered, disappointment in her
tones. Then as the doctor leaned over to remove his boots, her
voice spoke from the darkness with renewed cheerfulness. "I
imagine Dolly has gotten it all out of old man Merriwether and she
can tell me about it."

"Good Heavens, Mrs. Meade! Do you mean to tell me that nice women
talk about such things among them--"

"Oh, go to bed," said Mrs. Meade.



It sleeted the next day, but as the wintry twilight drew on the icy
particles stopped falling and a cold wind blew. Wrapped in her
cloak, Melanie went bewilderedly down her front walk behind a
strange negro coachman who had summoned her mysteriously to a
closed carriage waiting in front of the house. As she came up to
the carriage the door was opened and she saw a woman in the dim
interior.

Leaning closer, peering inside, Melanie questioned: "Who is it?
Won't you come in the house? It's so cold--"

"Please come in here and set with me a minute, Miz Wilkes," came a
faintly familiar voice, an embarrassed voice from the depths of the
carriage.

"Oh, you're Miss--Mrs.--Watling!" cried Melanie. "I did so want to
see you! You must come in the house."

"I can't do that, Miz Wilkes." Belle Watling's voice sounded
scandalized. "You come in here and set a minute with me."

Melanie entered the carriage and the coachman closed the door
behind her. She sat down beside Belle and reached for her hand.

"How can I ever thank you enough for what you did today! How can
any of us thank you enough!"

"Miz Wilkes, you hadn't ought of sent me that note this mornin'.
Not that I wasn't proud to have a note from you but the Yankees
might of got it. And as for sayin' you was goin' to call on me to
thank me--why, Miz Wilkes, you must of lost your mind! The very
idea! I come up here as soon as 'twas dark to tell you you mustn't
think of any sech thing. Why, I--why, you--it wouldn't be fittin'
at all."

"It wouldn't be fitting for me to call and thank a kind woman who
saved my husband's life?"

"Oh, shucks, Miz Wilkes! You know what I mean!"

Melanie was silent for a moment, embarrassed by the implication.
Somehow this handsome, sedately dressed woman sitting in the
darkness of the carriage didn't look and talk as she imagined a bad
woman, the Madam of a House, should look and talk. She sounded
like--well, a little common and countrified but nice and warm
hearted.

"You were wonderful before the provost marshal today, Mrs. Watling!
You and the other--your--the young ladies certainly saved our men's
lives."

"Mr. Wilkes was the wonderful one. I don't know how he even stood
up and told his story, much less look as cool as he done. He was
sure bleedin' like a pig when I seen him last night. Is he goin'
to be all right, Miz Wilkes?"

"Yes, thank you. The doctor says it's just a flesh wound, though
he did lose a tremendous lot of blood. This morning he was--well,
he was pretty well laced with brandy or he'd never have had the
strength to go through with it all so well. But it was you, Mrs.
Watling, who saved them. When you got mad and talked about the
broken mirrors you sounded so--so convincing."

"Thank you, Ma'm. But I--I thought Captain Butler done mighty fine
too," said Belle, shy pride in her voice.

"Oh, he was wonderful!" cried Melanie warmly. "The Yankees
couldn't help but believe his testimony. He was so smart about the
whole affair. I can never thank him enough--or you either! How
good and kind you are!"

"Thank you kindly, Miz Wilkes. It was a pleasure to do it. I--I
hope it ain't goin' to embarrass you none, me sayin' Mr. Wilkes
come regular to my place. He never, you know--"

"Yes, I know. No, it doesn't embarrass me at all. I'm just so
grateful to you."

"I'll bet the other ladies ain't grateful to me," said Belle with
sudden venom. "And I'll bet they ain't grateful to Captain Butler
neither. I'll bet they'll hate him just this much more. I'll bet
you'll be the only lady who even says thanks to me. I'll bet they
won't even look me in the eye when they see me on the street. But
I don't care. I wouldn't of minded if all their husbands got hung.
But I did mind about Mr. Wilkes. You see I ain't forgot how nice
you was to me durin' the war, about the money for the hospital.
There ain't never been a lady in this town nice to me like you was
and I don't forget a kindness. And I thought about you bein' left
a widder with a little boy if Mr. Wilkes got hung and--he's a nice
little boy, your boy is, Miz Wilkes. I got a boy myself and so I--"

"Oh, you have? Does he live--er--"

"Oh, no'm! He ain't here in Atlanta. He ain't never been here.
He's off at school. I ain't seen him since he was little. I--
well, anyway, when Captain Butler wanted me to lie for those men I
wanted to know who the men was and when I heard Mr. Wilkes was one
I never hesitated. I said to my girls, I said, 'I'll whale the
livin' daylights out of you all if you don't make a special point
of sayin' you was with Mr. Wilkes all evenin'."

"Oh!" said Melanie, still more embarrassed by Belle's offhand
reference to her "girls." "Oh, that was--er--kind of you and--of
them, too."

"No more'n you deserve," said Belle warmly. "But I wouldn't of did
it for just anybody. If it had been that Miz Kennedy's husband by
hisself, I wouldn't of lifted a finger, no matter what Captain
Butler said."

"Why?"

"Well, Miz Wilkes, people in my business knows a heap of things.
It'd surprise and shock a heap of fine ladies if they had any
notion how much we knows about them. And she ain't no good, Miz
Wilkes. She kilt her husband and that nice Wellburn boy, same as
if she shot them. She caused it all, prancin' about Atlanta by
herself, enticin' niggers and trash. Why, not one of my girls--"

"You must not say unkind things about my sister-in-law." Melanie
stiffened coldly.

Belle put an eager placating hand on Melanie's arm and then hastily
withdrew it.

"Don't freeze me, please, Miz Wilkes. I couldn't stand it after
you been so kind and sweet to me. I forgot how you liked her and
I'm sorry for what I said. I'm sorry about poor Mr. Kennedy bein'
dead too. He was a nice man. I used to buy some of the stuff for
my house from him and he always treated me pleasant. But Miz
Kennedy--well, she just ain't in the same class with you, Miz
Wilkes. She's a mighty cold woman and I can't help it if I think
so. . . . When are they goin' to bury Mr. Kennedy?"

"Tomorrow morning. And you are wrong about Mrs. Kennedy. Why,
this very minute she's prostrated with grief."

"Maybe so," said Belle with evident disbelief. "Well, I got to be
goin'. I'm afraid somebody might recognize this carriage if I
stayed here longer and that wouldn't do you no good. And, Miz
Wilkes, if you ever see me on the street, you--you don't have to
speak to me. I'll understand."

"I shall be proud to speak to you. Proud to be under obligation to
you. I hope--I hope we meet again."

"No," said Belle. "That wouldn't be fittin'. Good night."



CHAPTER XLVII


Scarlett sat in her bedroom, picking at the supper tray Mammy had
brought her, listening to the wind hurling itself out of the night.
The house was frighteningly still, quieter even than when Frank had
lain in the parlor just a few hours before. Then there had been
tiptoeing feet and hushed voices, muffled knocks on the door,
neighbors rustling in to whisper sympathy and occasional sobs from
Frank's sister who had come up from Jonesboro for the funeral.

But now the house was cloaked in silence. Although her door was
open she could hear no sounds from below stairs. Wade and the baby
had been at Melanie's since Frank's body was brought home and she
missed the sound of the boy's feet and Ella's gurgling. There was
a truce in the kitchen and no sound of quarreling from Peter, Mammy
and Cookie floated up to her. Even Aunt Pitty, downstairs in the
library, was not rocking her creaking chair in deference to
Scarlett's sorrow.

No one intruded upon her, believing that she wished to be left
alone with her grief, but to be left alone was the last thing
Scarlett desired. Had it only been grief that companioned her, she
could have borne it as she had borne other griefs. But, added to
her stunned sense of loss at Frank's death, were fear and remorse
and the torment of a suddenly awakened conscience. For the first
time in her life she was regretting things she had done, regretting
them with a sweeping superstitious fear that made her cast sidelong
glances at the bed upon which she had lain with Frank.

She had killed Frank. She had killed him just as surely as if it
had been her finger that pulled the trigger. He had begged her not
to go about alone but she had not listened to him. And now he was
dead because of her obstinacy. God would punish her for that. But
there lay upon her conscience another matter that was heavier and
more frightening even than causing his death--a matter which had
never troubled her until she looked upon his coffined face. There
had been something helpless and pathetic in that still face which
had accused her. God would punish her for marrying him when he
really loved Suellen. She would have to cower at the seat of
judgment and answer for that lie she told him coming back from the
Yankee camp in his buggy.

Useless for her to argue now that the end justified the means, that
she was driven into trapping him, that the fate of too many people
hung on her for her to consider either his or Suellen's rights and
happiness. The truth stood out boldly and she cowered away from
it. She had married him coldly and used him coldly. And she had
made him unhappy during the last six months when she could have
made him very happy. God would punish her for not being nicer to
him--punish her for all her bullyings and proddings and storms of
temper and cutting remarks, for alienating his friends and shaming
him by operating the mills and building the saloon and leasing
convicts.

She had made him very unhappy and she knew it, but he had borne it
all like a gentleman. The only thing she had ever done that gave
him any real happiness was to present him with Ella. And she knew
if she could have kept from having Ella, Ella would never have been
born.

She shivered, frightened, wishing Frank were alive, so she could be
nice to him, so very nice to him to make up for it all. Oh, if
only God did not seem so furious and vengeful! Oh, if only the
minutes did not go by so slowly and the house were not so still!
If only she were not so alone!

If only Melanie were with her, Melanie could calm her fears. But
Melanie was at home, nursing Ashley. For a moment Scarlett thought
of summoning Pittypat to stand between her and her conscience but
she hesitated. Pitty would probably make matters worse, for she
honestly mourned Frank. He had been more her contemporary than
Scarlett's and she had been devoted to him. He had filled to
perfection Pitty's need for "a man in the house," for he brought
her little presents and harmless gossip, jokes and stories, read
the paper to her at night and explained topics of the day to her
while she mended his socks. She had fussed over him and planned
special dishes for him and coddled him during his innumerable
colds. Now she missed him acutely and repeated over and over as
she dabbed at her red swollen eyes: "If only he hadn't gone out
with the Klan!"

If there were only someone who could comfort her, quiet her fears,
explain to her just what were these confused fears which made her
heart sink with such cold sickness! If only Ashley--but she shrank
from the thought. She had almost killed Ashley, just as she had
killed Frank. And if Ashley ever knew the real truth about how she
lied to Frank to get him, knew how mean she had been to Frank, he
could never love her any more. Ashley was so honorable, so
truthful, so kind and he saw so straightly, so clearly. If he knew
the whole truth, he would understand. Oh, yes, he would understand
only too well! But he would never love her any more. So he must
never know the truth because he must keep on loving her. How could
she live if that secret source of her strength, his love, were
taken from her? But what a relief it would be to put her head on
his shoulder and cry and unburden her guilty heart!

The still house with the sense of death heavy upon it pressed about
her loneliness until she felt she could not bear it unaided any
longer. She arose cautiously, pushed her door half-closed and then
dug about in the bottom bureau drawer beneath her underwear. She
produced Aunt Pitty's "swoon bottle" of brandy which she had hidden
there and held it up to the lamp. It was nearly half-empty.
Surely she hadn't drunk that much since last night! She poured a
generous amount into her water glass and gulped it down. She would
have to put the bottle back in the cellaret before morning, filled
to the top with water. Mammy had hunted for it, just before the
funeral when the pallbearers wanted a drink, and already the air in
the kitchen was electric with suspicion between Mammy, Cookie and
Peter.

The brandy burned with fiery pleasantness. There was nothing like
it when you needed it. In fact, brandy was good almost any time,
so much better than insipid wine. Why on earth should it be proper
for a woman to drink wine and not spirits? Mrs. Merriwether and
Mrs. Meade had sniffed her breath most obviously at the funeral and
she had seen the triumphant look they had exchanged. The old cats!

She poured another drink. It wouldn't matter if she did get a
little tipsy tonight for she was going to bed soon and she could
gargle cologne before Mammy came up to unlace her. She wished she
could get as completely and thoughtlessly drunk as Gerald used to
get on Court Day. Then perhaps she could forget Frank's sunken
face accusing her of ruining his life and then killing him.

She wondered if everyone in town thought she had killed him.
Certainly the people at the funeral had been cold to her. The only
people who had put any warmth into their expressions of sympathy
were the wives of the Yankee officers with whom she did business.
Well, she didn't care what the town said about her. How
unimportant that seemed beside what she would have to answer for to
God!

She took another drink at the thought, shuddering as the hot brandy
went down her throat. She felt very warm now but still she
couldn't get the thought of Frank out of her mind. What fools men
were when they said liquor made people forget! Unless she drank
herself into insensibility, she'd still see Frank's face as it had
looked the last time he begged her not to drive alone, timid,
reproachful, apologetic.

The knocker on the front door hammered with a dull sound that made
the still house echo and she heard Aunt Pitty's waddling steps
crossing the hall and the door opening. There was the sound of
greeting and an indistinguishable murmur. Some neighbor calling to
discuss the funeral or to bring a blanc mange. Pitty would like
that. She had taken an important and melancholy pleasure in
talking to the condolence callers.

She wondered incuriously who it was and, when a man's voice,
resonant and drawling, rose above Pitty's funereal whispering, she
knew. Gladness and relief flooded her. It was Rhett. She had not
seen him since he broke the news of Frank's death to her, and now
she knew, deep in her heart, that he was the one person who could
help her tonight.

"I think she'll see me," Rhett's voice floated up to her.

"But she is lying down now, Captain Butler, and won't see anyone.
Poor child, she is quite prostrated. She--"

"I think she will see me. Please tell her I am going away tomorrow
and may be gone some time. It's very important."

"But--" fluttered Aunt Pittypat.

Scarlett ran out into the hall, observing with some astonishment
that her knees were a little unsteady, and leaned over the
banisters.

"I'll be down terrectly, Rhett," she called.

She had a glimpse of Aunt Pittypat's plump upturned face, her eyes
owlish with surprise and disapproval. Now it'll be all over town
that I conducted myself most improperly on the day of my husband's
funeral, thought Scarlett, as she hurried back to her room and
began smoothing her hair. She buttoned her black basque up to the
chin and pinned down the collar with Pittypat's mourning brooch. I
don't look very pretty she thought, leaning toward the mirror, too
white and scared. For a moment her hand went toward the lock box
where she kept her rouge hidden but she decided against it. Poor
Pittypat would be upset in earnest if she came downstairs pink and
blooming. She picked up the cologne bottle and took a large
mouthful, carefully rinsed her mouth and then spit into the slop
jar.

She rustled down the stairs toward the two who still stood in the
hall, for Pittypat had been too upset by Scarlett's action to ask
Rhett to sit down. He was decorously clad in black, his linen
frilly and starched, and his manner was all that custom demanded
from an old friend paying a call of sympathy on one bereaved. In
fact, it was so perfect that it verged on the burlesque, though
Pittypat did not see it. He was properly apologetic for disturbing
Scarlett and regretted that in his rush of closing up business
before leaving town he had been unable to be present at the
funeral.

"Whatever possessed him to come?" wondered Scarlett. "He doesn't
mean a word he's saying."

"I hate to intrude on you at this time but I have a matter of
business to discuss that will not wait. Something that Mr. Kennedy
and I were planning--"

"I didn't know you and Mr. Kennedy had business dealings," said
Aunt Pittypat, almost indignant that some of Frank's activities
were unknown to her.

"Mr. Kennedy was a man of wide interests," said Rhett respectfully.
"Shall we go into the parlor?"

"No!" cried Scarlett. glancing at the closed folding doors. She
could still see the coffin in that room. She hoped she never had
to enter it again. Pitty, for once, took a hint, although with
none too good grace.

"Do use the library. I must--I must go upstairs and get out the
mending. Dear me, I've neglected it so this last week. I declare--"

She went up the stairs with a backward look of reproach which was
noticed by neither Scarlett nor Rhett. He stood aside to let her
pass before him into the library.

"What business did you and Frank have?" she questioned abruptly.

He came closer and whispered. "None at all. I just wanted to get
Miss Pitty out of the way." He paused as he leaned over her.
"It's no good, Scarlett."

"What?"

"The cologne."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I'm sure you do. You've been drinking pretty heavily."

"Well, what if I have? Is it any of your business?"

"The soul of courtesy, even in the depths of sorrow. Don't drink
alone, Scarlett. People always find it out and it ruins the
reputation. And besides, it's a bad business, this drinking alone.
What's the matter, honey?"

He led her to the rosewood sofa and she sat down in silence.

"May I close the doors?"

She knew if Mammy saw the closed doors she would be scandalized and
would lecture and grumble about it for days, but it would be still
worse if Mammy should overhear this discussion of drinking,
especially in light of the missing brandy bottle. She nodded and
Rhett drew the sliding doors together. When he came back and sat
down beside her, his dark eyes alertly searching her face, the pall
of death receded before the vitality he radiated and the room
seemed pleasant and homelike again, the lamps rosy and warm.

"What's the matter, honey?"

No one in the world could say that foolish word of endearment as
caressingly as Rhett, even when he was joking, but he did not look
as if he were joking now. She raised tormented eyes to his face
and somehow found comfort in the blank inscrutability she saw
there. She did not know why this should be, for he was such an
unpredictable, callous person. Perhaps it was because, as he often
said, they were so much alike. Sometimes she thought that all the
people she had ever known were strangers except Rhett.

"Can't you tell me?" he took her hand, oddly gentle. "It's more
than old Frank leaving you? Do you need money?"

"Money? God, no! Oh, Rhett, I'm so afraid."

"Don't be a goose, Scarlett, you've never been afraid in your
life."

"Oh, Rhett, I am afraid!"

The words bubbled up faster than she could speak them. She could
tell him. She could tell Rhett anything. He'd been so bad himself
that he wouldn't sit in judgment on her. How wonderful to know
someone who was bad and dishonorable and a cheat and a liar, when
all the world was filled with people who would not lie to save
their souls and who would rather starve than do a dishonorable
deed!

"I'm afraid I'll die and go to hell."

If he laughed at her she would die, right then. But he did not
laugh.

"You are pretty healthy--and maybe there isn't any hell after all."

"Oh, but there is, Rhett! You know there is!"

"I know there is but it's right here on earth. Not after we die.
There's nothing after we die, Scarlett. You are having your hell
now."

"Oh, Rhett, that's blasphemous!"

"But singularly comforting. Tell me, why are you going to hell?"

He was teasing now, she could see the glint in his eyes but she did
not mind. His hands felt so warm and strong, so comforting to
cling to.

"Rhett, I oughtn't to have married Frank. It was wrong. He was
Suellen's beau and he loved her, not me. But I lied to him and
told him she was going to marry Tony Fontaine. Oh, how could I
have done it?"

"Ah, so that was how it came about! I always wondered."

"And then I made him so miserable. I made him do all sorts of
things he didn't want to do, like making people pay their bills
when they really couldn't afford to pay them. And it hurt him so
when I ran the mills and built the saloon and leased convicts. He
could hardly hold up his head for shame. And Rhett, I killed him.
Yes, I did! I didn't know he was in the Klan. I never dreamed he
had that much gumption. But I ought to have known. And I killed
him."

"'Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my
hand?'"

"What?"

"No matter. Go on."

"Go on? That's all. Isn't it enough? I married him, I made him
unhappy and I killed him. Oh, my God! I don't see how I could
have done it! I lied to him and I married him. It all seemed so
right when I did it but now I see how wrong it was. Rhett, it
doesn't seem like it was me who did all these things. I was so
mean to him but I'm not really mean. I wasn't raised that way.
Mother--" She stopped and swallowed. She had avoided thinking of
Ellen all day but she could no longer blot out her image.

"I often wondered what she was like. You seemed to me so like your
father."

"Mother was-- Oh, Rhett, for the first time I'm glad she's dead,
so she can't see me. She didn't raise me to be mean. She was so
kind to everybody, so good. She'd rather I'd have starved than
done this. And I so wanted to be just like her in every way and
I'm not like her one bit. I hadn't thought of that--there's been
so much else to think about--but I wanted to be like her. I didn't
want to be like Pa. I loved him but he was--so--so thoughtless.
Rhett, sometimes I did try so hard to be nice to people and kind to
Frank, but then the nightmare would come back and scare me so bad
I'd want to rush out and just grab money away from people, whether
it was mine or not."

Tears were streaming unheeded down her face and she clutched his
hand so hard that her nails dug into his flesh.

"What nightmare?" His voice was calm and soothing.

"Oh--I forgot you didn't know. Well, just when I would try to be
nice to folks and tell myself that money wasn't everything, I'd go
to bed and dream that I was back at Tara right after Mother died,
right after the Yankees went through. Rhett, you can't imagine--I
get cold when I think about it. I can see how everything is burned
and so still and there's nothing to eat. Oh, Rhett, in my dream
I'm hungry again."

"Go on."

"I'm hungry and everybody, Pa and the girls and the darkies, are
starving and they keep saying over and over: 'We're hungry' and
I'm so empty it hurts, and so frightened. My mind keeps saying:
'If I ever get out of this, I'll never, never be hungry again' and
then the dream goes off into a gray mist and I'm running, running
in the mist, running so hard my heart's about to burst and
something is chasing me, and I can't breathe but I keep thinking
that if I can just get there, I'll be safe. But I don't know where
I'm trying to get to. And then I'd wake up and I'd be cold with
fright and so afraid that I'd be hungry again. When I wake up from
that dream, it seems like there's not enough money in the world to
keep me from being afraid of being hungry again. And then Frank
would be so mealy mouthed and slow poky that he would make me mad
and I'd lose my temper. He didn't understand, I guess, and I
couldn't make him understand. I kept thinking that I'd make it up
to him some day when we had money and I wasn't so afraid of being
hungry. And now he's dead and it's too late. Oh, it seemed so
right when I did it but it was all so wrong. If I had it to do
over again, I'd do it so differently."

"Hush," he said, disentangling her frantic grip and pulling a clean
handkerchief from his pocket. "Wipe your face. There is no sense
in your tearing yourself to pieces this way."

She took the handkerchief and wiped her damp cheeks, a little
relief stealing over her as if she had shifted some of her burden
to his broad shoulders. He looked so capable and calm and even the
slight twist of his mouth was comforting as though it proved her
agony and confusion unwarranted.

"Feel better now? Then let's get to the bottom of this. You say
if you had it to do over again, you'd do it differently. But would
you? Think, now. Would you?"

"Well--"

"No, you'd do the same things again. Did you have any other
choice?"

"No."

"Then what are you sorry about?"

"I was so mean and now he's dead."

"And if he wasn't dead, you'd still be mean. As I understand it,
you are not really sorry for marrying Frank and bullying him and
inadvertently causing his death. You are only sorry because you
are afraid of going to hell. Is that right?"

"Well--that sounds so mixed up."

"Your ethics are considerably mixed up too. You are in the exact
position of a thief who's been caught red handed and isn't sorry he
stole but is terribly, terribly sorry he's going to jail."

"A thief--"

"Oh, don't be so literal! In other words if you didn't have this
silly idea that you were damned to hell fire eternal, you'd think
you were well rid of Frank."

"Oh, Rhett!"

"Oh, come! You are confessing and you might as well confess the
truth as a decorous lie. Did your--er--conscience bother you much
when you offered to--shall we say--part with that jewel which is
dearer than life for three hundred dollars?"

The brandy was spinning in her head now and she felt giddy and a
little reckless. What was the use in lying to him? He always
seemed to read her mind.

"I really didn't think about God much then--or hell. And when I
did think--well, I just reckoned God would understand."

"But you don't credit God with understanding why you married
Frank?"

"Rhett, how can you talk so about God when you know you don't
believe there is one?"

"But you believe in a God of Wrath and that's what's important at
present. Why shouldn't the Lord understand? Are you sorry you
still own Tara and there aren't Carpetbaggers living there? Are
you sorry you aren't hungry and ragged?"

"Oh, no!"

"Well, did you have any alternative except marrying Frank?"

"No."

"He didn't have to marry you, did he? Men are free agents. And he
didn't have to let you bully him into doing things he didn't want
to, did he?"

"Well--"

"Scarlett, why worry about it? If you had it to do over again you
would be driven to the lie and he to marrying you. You would still
have run yourself into danger and he would have had to avenge you.
If he had married Sister Sue, she might not have caused his death
but she'd probably have made him twice as unhappy as you did. It
couldn't have happened differently."

"But I could have been nicer to him."

"You could have been--if you'd been somebody else. But you were
born to bully anyone who'll let you do it. The strong were made to
bully and the weak to knuckle under. It's all Frank's fault for
not beating you with a buggy whip. . . . I'm surprised at you,
Scarlett, for sprouting a conscience this late in life. Opportunists
like you shouldn't have them."

"What is an oppor--what did you call it?"

"A person who takes advantage of opportunities."

"Is that wrong?"

"It has always been held in disrepute--especially by those who had
the same opportunities and didn't take them."

"Oh, Rhett, you are joking and I thought you were going to be
nice!"

"I am being nice--for me. Scarlett, darling, you are tipsy.
That's what's the matter with you."

"You dare--"

"Yes, I dare. You are on the verge of what is vulgarly called a
'crying jag' and so I shall change the subject and cheer you up by
telling you some news that will amuse you. In fact, that's why I
came here this evening, to tell you my news before I went away."

"Where are you going?"

"To England and I may be gone for months. Forget your conscience,
Scarlett. I have no intention of discussing your soul's welfare
any further. Don't you want to hear my news?"

"But--" she began feebly and paused. Between the brandy which was
smoothing out the harsh contours of remorse and Rhett's mocking but
comforting words, the pale specter of Frank was receding into
shadows. Perhaps Rhett was right. Perhaps God did understand.
She recovered enough to push the idea from the top of her mind and
decide: "I'll think about it all tomorrow."

"What's your news?" she said with an effort, blowing her nose on
his handkerchief and pushing back the hair that had begun to
straggle.

"My news is this," he answered, grinning down at her. "I still
want you more than any woman I've ever seen and now that Frank's
gone, I thought you'd be interested to know it."

Scarlett jerked her hands away from his grasp and sprang to her
feet.

"I--you are the most ill-bred man in the world, coming here at this
time of all times with your filthy--I should have known you'd never
change. And Frank hardly cold! If you had any decency-- Will you
leave this--"

"Do be quiet or you'll have Miss Pittypat down here in a minute,"
he said, not rising but reaching up and taking both her fists.
"I'm afraid you miss my point."

"Miss your point? I don't miss anything." She pulled against his
grip. "Turn me loose and get out of here. I never heard of such
bad taste. I--"

"Hush," he said. "I am asking you to marry me. Would you be
convinced if I knelt down?"

She said "Oh" breathlessly and sat down hard on the sofa.

She stared at him, her mouth open, wondering if the brandy were
playing tricks on her mind, remembering senselessly his jibing:
"My dear, I'm not a marrying man." She was drunk or he was crazy.
But he did not look crazy. He looked as calm as though he were
discussing the weather, and his smooth drawl fell on her ears with
no particular emphasis.

"I always intended having you, Scarlett, since that first day I saw
you at Twelve Oaks when you threw that vase and swore and proved
that you weren't a lady. I always intended having you, one way or
another. But as you and Frank have made a little money, I know
you'll never be driven to me again with any interesting propositions
of loans and collaterals. So I see I'll have to marry you."

"Rhett Butler, is this one of your vile jokes?"

"I bare my soul and you are suspicious! No, Scarlett, this is a
bona fide honorable declaration. I admit that it's not in the best
of taste, coming at this time, but I have a very good excuse for my
lack of breeding. I'm going away tomorrow for a long time and I
fear that if I wait till I return you'll have married some one else
with a little money. So I thought, why not me and my money?
Really, Scarlett, I can't go all my life, waiting to catch you
between husbands."

He meant it. There was no doubt about it. Her mouth was dry as
she assimilated this knowledge and she swallowed and looked into
his eyes, trying to find some clue. They were full of laughter but
there was something else, deep in them, which she had never seen
before, a gleam that defied analysis. He sat easily, carelessly
but she felt that he was watching her as alertly as a cat watches a
mouse hole. There was a sense of leashed power straining beneath
his calm that made her draw back, a little frightened.

He was actually asking her to marry him; he was committing the
incredible. Once she had planned how she would torment him should
he ever propose. Once she had thought that if he ever spoke those
words she would humble him and make him feel her power and take a
malicious pleasure in doing it. Now, he had spoken and the plans
did not even occur to her, for he was no more in her power than he
had ever been. In fact, he held the whip hand of the situation so
completely that she was as flustered as a girl at her first
proposal and she could only blush and stammer.

"I--I shall never marry again."

"Oh, yes, you will. You were born to be married. Why not me?"

"But Rhett, I--I don't love you."

"That should be no drawback. I don't recall that love was
prominent in your other two ventures."

"Oh, how can you? You know I was fond of Frank!"

He said nothing.

"I was! I was!"

"Well, we won't argue that. Will you think over my proposition
while I'm gone?"

"Rhett, I don't like for things to drag on. I'd rather tell you
now. I'm going home to Tara soon and India Wilkes will stay with
Aunt Pittypat. I want to go home for a long spell and--I--I don't
ever want to get married again."

"Nonsense. Why?"

"Oh, well--never mind why. I just don't like being married."

"But, my poor child, you've never really been married. How can you
know? I'll admit you've had bad luck--once for spite and once for
money. Did you ever think of marrying--just for the fun of it?"

"Fun! Don't talk like a fool. There's no fun being married."

"No? Why not?"

A measure of calm had returned and with it all the natural
bluntness which brandy brought to the surface.

"It's fun for men--though God knows why. I never could understand
it. But all a woman gets out of it is something to eat and a lot
of work and having to put up with a man's foolishness--and a baby
every year."

He laughed so loudly that the sound echoed in the stillness and
Scarlett heard the kitchen door open.

"Hush! Mammy has ears like a lynx and it isn't decent to laugh so
soon after--hush laughing. You know it's true. Fun! Fiddle-dee-
dee!"

"I said you'd had bad luck and what you've just said proves it.
You've been married to a boy and to an old man. And into the
bargain I'll bet your mother told you that women must bear 'these
things' because of the compensating joys of motherhood. Well,
that's all wrong. Why not try marrying a fine young man who has a
bad reputation and a way with women? It'll be fun."

"You are coarse and conceited and I think this conversation has
gone far enough. It's--it's quite vulgar."

"And quite enjoyable, too, isn't it? I'll wager you never
discussed the marital relation with a man before, even Charles or
Frank."

She scowled at him. Rhett knew too much. She wondered where he
had learned all he knew about women. It wasn't decent.

"Don't frown. Name the day, Scarlett. I'm not urging instant
matrimony because of your reputation. We'll wait the decent
interval. By the way, just how long is a 'decent interval'?"

"I haven't said I'd marry you. It isn't decent to even talk of
such things at such a time."

"I've told you why I'm talking of them. I'm going away tomorrow
and I'm too ardent a lover to restrain my passion any longer. But
perhaps I've been too precipitate in my wooing."

With a suddenness that startled her, he slid off the sofa onto his
knees and with one hand placed delicately over his heart, he
recited rapidly:

"Forgive me for startling you with the impetuosity of my sentiments,
my dear Scarlett--I mean, my dear Mrs. Kennedy. It cannot have
escaped your notice that for some time past the friendship I have
had in my heart for you has ripened into a deeper feeling, a feeling
more beautiful, more pure, more sacred. Dare I name it you? Ah!
It is love which makes me so bold!"

"Do get up," she entreated. "You look such a fool and suppose
Mammy should come in and see you?"

"She would be stunned and incredulous at the first signs of my
gentility," said Rhett, arising lightly. "Come, Scarlett, you are
no child, no schoolgirl to put me off with foolish excuses about
decency and so forth. Say you'll marry me when I come back or,
before God, I won't go. I'll stay around here and play a guitar
under your window every night and sing at the top of my voice and
compromise you, so you'll have to marry me to save your reputation."

"Rhett, do be sensible. I don't want to marry anybody."

"No? You aren't telling me the real reason. It can't be girlish
timidity. What is it?"

Suddenly she thought of Ashley, saw him as vividly as though he
stood beside her, sunny haired, drowsy eyed, full of dignity, so
utterly different from Rhett. He was the real reason she did not
want to marry again, although she had no objections to Rhett and at
times was genuinely fond of him. She belonged to Ashley, forever
and ever. She had never belonged to Charles or Frank, could never
really belong to Rhett. Every part of her, almost everything she
had ever done, striven after, attained, belonged to Ashley, were
done because she loved him. Ashley and Tara, she belonged to them.
The smiles, the laughter, the kisses she had given Charles and
Frank were Ashley's, even though he had never claimed them, would
never claim them. Somewhere deep in her was the desire to keep
herself for him, although she knew he would never take her.

She did not know that her face had changed, that reverie had
brought a softness to her face which Rhett had never seen before.
He looked at the slanting green eyes, wide and misty, and the
tender curve of her lips and for a moment his breath stopped. Then
his mouth went down violently at one corner and he swore with
passionate impatience.

"Scarlett O'Hara, you're a fool!"

Before she could withdraw her mind from its far places, his arms
were around her, as sure and hard as on the dark road to Tara, so
long ago. She felt again the rush of helplessness, the sinking
yielding, the surging tide of warmth that left her limp. And the
quiet face of Ashley Wilkes was blurred and drowned to nothingness.
He bent back her head across his arm and kissed her, softly at
first, and then with a swift gradation of intensity that made her
cling to him as the only solid thing in a dizzy swaying world. His
insistent mouth was parting her shaking lips, sending wild tremors
along her nerves, evoking from her sensations she had never known
she was capable of feeling. And before a swimming giddiness spun
her round and round, she knew that she was kissing him back.

"Stop--please, I'm faint!" she whispered, trying to turn her head
weakly from him. He pressed her head back hard against his
shoulder and she had a dizzy glimpse of his face. His eyes were
wide and blazing queerly and the tremor in his arms frightened her.

"I want to make you faint. I will make you faint. You've had this
coming to you for years. None of the fools you've known have
kissed you like this--have they? Your precious Charles or Frank or
your stupid Ashley--"

"Please--"

"I said your stupid Ashley. Gentlemen all--what do they know about
women? What did they know about you? I know you."

His mouth was on hers again and she surrendered without a struggle,
too weak even to turn her head, without even the desire to turn it,
her heart shaking her with its poundings, fear of his strength and
her nerveless weakness sweeping her. What was he going to do? She
would faint if he did not stop. If he would only stop--if he would
never stop.

"Say Yes!" His mouth was poised above hers and his eyes were so
close that they seemed enormous, filling the world. "Say Yes, damn
you, or--"

She whispered "Yes" before she even thought. It was almost as if
he had willed the word and she had spoken it without her own
volition. But even as she spoke it, a sudden calm fell on her
spirit, her head began to stop spinning and even the giddiness of
the brandy was lessened. She had promised to marry him when she
had had no intention of promising. She hardly knew how it had all
come about but she was not sorry. It now seemed very natural that
she had said Yes--almost as if by divine intervention, a hand
stronger than hers was about her affairs, settling her problems for
her.

He drew a quick breath as she spoke and bent as if to kiss her
again and her eyes closed and her head fell back. But he drew back
and she was faintly disappointed. It made her feel so strange to
be kissed like this and yet there was something exciting about it.

He sat very still for a while holding her head against his shoulder
and, as if by effort, the trembling of his arms ceased. He moved
away from her a little and looked down at her. She opened her eyes
and saw that the frightening glow had gone from his face. But
somehow she could not meet his gaze and she dropped her eyes in a
rush of tingling confusion.

When he spoke his voice was very calm.

"You meant it? You don't want to take it back?"

"No."

"It's not just because I've--what is the phrase?--'swept you off
your feet' by my--er--ardor?"

She could not answer for she did not know what to say, nor could
she meet his eyes. He put a hand under her chin and lifted her
face.

"I told you once that I could stand anything from you except a lie.
And now I want the truth. Just why did you say Yes?"

Still the words would not come, but, a measure of poise returning,
she kept her eyes demurely down and tucked the corners of her mouth
into a little smile.

"Look at me. Is it my money?"

"Why, Rhett! What a question!"

"Look up and don't try to sweet talk me. I'm not Charles or Frank
or any of the County boys to be taken in by your fluttering lids.
Is it my money?"

"Well--yes, a part."

"A part?"

He did not seem annoyed. He drew a swift breath and with an effort
wiped from his eyes the eagerness her words had brought, an
eagerness which she was too confused to see.

"Well," she floundered helplessly, "money does help, you know,
Rhett, and God knows Frank didn't leave any too much. But then--
well, Rhett, we do get on, you know. And you are the only man I
ever saw who could stand the truth from a woman, and it would be
nice having a husband who didn't think me a silly fool and expect
me to tell lies--and--well, I am fond of you."

"Fond of me?"

"Well," she said fretfully, "if I said I was madly in love with
you, I'd be lying and what's more, you'd know it."

"Sometimes I think you carry your truth telling too far, my pet.
Don't you think, even if it was a lie, that it would be appropriate
for you to say 'I love you, Rhett,' even if you didn't mean it?"

What was he driving at, she wondered, becoming more confused. He
looked so queer, eager, hurt, mocking. He took his hands from her
and shoved them deep in his trousers pockets and she saw him ball
his fists.

"If it costs me a husband, I'll tell the truth," she thought
grimly, her blood up as always when he baited her.

"Rhett, it would be a lie, and why should we go through all that
foolishness? I'm fond of you, like I said. You know how it is.
You told me once that you didn't love me but that we had a lot in
common. Both rascals, was the way you--"

"Oh, God!" he whispered rapidly, turning his head away. "To be
taken in my own trap!"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing," and he looked at her and laughed, but it was not a
pleasant laugh. "Name the day, my dear," and he laughed again and
bent and kissed her hands. She was relieved to see his mood pass
and good humor apparently return, so she smiled too.

He played with her hand for a moment and grinned up at her.

"Did you ever in your novel reading come across the old situation
of the disinterested wife falling in love with her own husband?"

"You know I don't read novels," she said and, trying to equal his
jesting mood, went on: "Besides, you once said it was the height
of bad form for husbands and wives to love each other."

"I once said too God damn many things," he retorted abruptly and
rose to his feet.

"Don't swear."

"You'll have to get used to it and learn to swear too. You'll have
to get used to all my bad habits. That'll be part of the price of
being--fond of me and getting your pretty paws on my money."

"Well, don't fly off the handle so, because I didn't lie and make
you feel conceited. You aren't in love with me, are you? Why
should I be in love with you?"

"No, my dear, I'm not in love with you, no more than you are with
me, and if I were, you would be the last person I'd ever tell. God
help the man who ever really loves you. You'd break his heart, my
darling, cruel, destructive little cat who is so careless and
confident she doesn't even trouble to sheathe her claws."

He jerked her to her feet and kissed her again, but this time his
lips were different for he seemed not to care if he hurt her--
seemed to want to hurt her, to insult her. His lips slid down to
her throat and finally he pressed them against the taffeta over her
breast, so hard and so long that his breath burnt to her skin. Her
hands struggled up, pushing him away in outraged modesty.

"You mustn't! How dare you!"

"Your heart's going like a rabbit's," he said mockingly. "All too
fast for mere fondness I would think, if I were conceited. Smooth
your ruffled feathers. You are just putting on these virginal
airs. Tell me what I shall bring you from England. A ring? What
kind would you like?"

She wavered momentarily between interest in his last words and a
feminine desire to prolong the scene with anger and indignation.

"Oh--a diamond ring--and Rhett, do buy a great big one."

"So you can flaunt it before your poverty-stricken friends and say
'See what I caught!' Very well, you shall have a big one, one so
big that your less-fortunate friends can comfort themselves by
whispering that it's really vulgar to wear such large stones."

He abruptly started off across the room and she followed him,
bewildered, to the closed doors.

"What is the matter? Where are you going?"

"To my rooms to finish packing."

"Oh, but--"

"But, what?"

"Nothing. I hope you have a nice trip."

"Thank you."

He opened the door and walked into the hall. Scarlett trailed
after him, somewhat at a loss, a trifle disappointed as at an
unexpected anticlimax. He slipped on his coat and picked up his
gloves and hat.

"I'll write you. Let me know if you change your mind."

"Aren't you--"

"Well?" He seemed impatient to be off.

"Aren't you going to kiss me good-by?" she whispered, mindful of
the ears of the house.

"Don't you think you've had enough kissing for one evening?" he
retorted and grinned down at her. "To think of a modest, well-
brought-up young woman-- Well, I told you it would be fun, didn't
I?"

"Oh, you are impossible!" she cried in wrath, not caring if Mammy
did hear. "And I don't care if you never come back."

She turned and flounced toward the stairs, expecting to feel his
warm hand on her arm, stopping her. But he only pulled open the
front door and a cold draft swept in.

"But I will come back," he said and went out, leaving her on the
bottom step looking at the closed door.

The ring Rhett brought back from England was large indeed, so large
it embarrassed Scarlett to wear it. She loved gaudy and expensive
jewelry but she had an uneasy feeling that everyone was saying,
with perfect truth, that this ring was vulgar. The central stone
was a four-carat diamond and, surrounding it, were a number of
emeralds. It reached to the knuckle of her finger and gave her
hand the appearance of being weighted down. Scarlett had a
suspicion that Rhett had gone to great pains to have the ring made
up and, for pure meanness, had ordered it made as ostentatious as
possible.

Until Rhett was back in Atlanta and the ring on her finger she told
no one, not even her family, of her intentions, and when she did
announce her engagement a storm of bitter gossip broke out. Since
the Klan affair Rhett and Scarlett had been, with the exception of
the Yankees and Carpetbaggers, the town's most unpopular citizens.
Everyone had disapproved of Scarlett since the far-away day when
she abandoned the weeds worn for Charlie Hamilton. Their
disapproval had grown stronger because of her unwomanly conduct in
the matter of the mills, her immodesty in showing herself when she
was pregnant and so many other things. But when she brought about
the death of Frank and Tommy and jeopardized the lives of a dozen
other men, their dislike flamed into public condemnation.

As for Rhett, he had enjoyed the town's hatred since his
speculations during the war and he had not further endeared himself
to his fellow citizens by his alliances with the Republicans since
then. But, oddly enough, the fact that he had saved the lives of
some of Atlanta's most prominent men was what aroused the hottest
hate of Atlanta's ladies.

It was not that they regretted their men were still alive. It was
that they bitterly resented owing the men's lives to such a man as
Rhett and to such an embarrassing trick. For months they had
writhed under Yankee laughter and scorn, and the ladies felt and
said that if Rhett really had the good of the Klan at heart he
would have managed the affair in a more seemly fashion. They said
he had deliberately dragged in Belle Watling to put the nice people
of the town in a disgraceful position. And so he deserved neither
thanks for rescuing the men nor forgiveness for his past sins.

These women, so swift to kindness, so tender to the sorrowing, so
untiring in times of stress, could be as implacable as furies to
any renegade who broke one small law of their unwritten code. This
code was simple. Reverence for the Confederacy, honor to the
veterans, loyalty to old forms, pride in poverty, open hands to
friends and undying hatred to Yankees. Between them, Scarlett and
Rhett had outraged every tenet of this code.

The men whose lives Rhett had saved attempted, out of decency and a
sense of gratitude, to keep their women silent but they had little
success. Before the announcement of their coming marriage, the two
had been unpopular enough but people could still be polite to them
in a formal way. Now even that cold courtesy was no longer
possible. The news of their engagement came like an explosion,
unexpected and shattering, rocking the town, and even the mildest-
mannered women spoke their minds heatedly. Marrying barely a year
after Frank's death and she had killed him! And marrying that
Butler man who owned a brothel and who was in with the Yankees and
Carpetbaggers in all kinds of thieving schemes! Separately the two
of them could be endured, but the brazen combination of Scarlett
and Rhett was too much to be borne. Common and vile, both of them!
They ought to be run out of town!

Atlanta might perhaps have been more tolerant toward the two if the
news of their engagement had not come at a time when Rhett's
Carpetbagger and Scallawag cronies were more odious in the sight of
respectable citizens than they had ever been before. Public
feeling against the Yankees and all their allies was at fever heat
at the very time when the town learned of the engagement, for the
last citadel of Georgia's resistance to Yankee rule had just
fallen. The long campaign which had begun when Sherman moved
southward from above Dalton, four years before, had finally reached
its climax, and the state's humiliation was complete.

Three years of Reconstruction had passed and they had been three
years of terrorism. Everyone had thought that conditions were
already as bad as they could ever be. But now Georgia was
discovering that Reconstruction at its worst had just begun.

For three years the Federal government had been trying to impose
alien ideas and an alien rule upon Georgia and, with an army to
enforce its commands, it had largely succeeded. But only the power
of the military upheld the new regime. The state was under the
Yankee rule but not by the state's consent. Georgia's leaders had
kept on battling for the state's right to govern itself according
to its own ideas. They had continued resisting all efforts to
force them to bow down and accept the dictates of Washington as
their own state law.

Officially, Georgia's government had never capitulated but it had
been a futile fight, an ever-losing fight. It was a fight that
could not win but it had, at least, postponed the inevitable.
Already many other Southern states had illiterate negroes in high
public office and legislatures dominated by negroes and
Carpetbaggers. But Georgia, by its stubborn resistance, had so far
escaped this final degradation. For the greater part of three
years, the state's capitol had remained in the control of white men
and Democrats. With Yankee soldiers everywhere, the state
officials could do little but protest and resist. Their power was
nominal but they had at least been able to keep the state
government in the hands of native Georgians. Now even that last
stronghold had fallen.

Just as Johnston and his men had been driven back step by step from
Dalton to Atlanta, four years before, so had the Georgia Democrats
been driven back little by little, from 1865 on. The power of the
Federal government over the state's affairs and the lives of its
citizens had been steadily made greater and greater. Force had
been piled on top of force and military edicts in increasing
numbers had rendered the civil authority more and more impotent.
Finally, with Georgia in the status of a military province, the
polls had been ordered thrown open to the negroes, whether the
state's laws permitted it or not.

A week before Scarlett and Rhett announced their engagement, an
election for governor had been held. The Southern Democrats had
General John B. Gordon, one of Georgia's best loved and most
honored citizens, as their candidate. Opposing him was a
Republican named Bullock. The election had lasted three days
instead of one. Trainloads of negroes had been rushed from town to
town, voting at every precinct along the way. Of course, Bullock
had won.

If the capture of Georgia by Sherman had caused bitterness, the
final capture of the state's capitol by the Carpetbaggers, Yankees
and negroes caused an intensity of bitterness such as the state had
never known before. Atlanta and Georgia seethed and raged.

And Rhett Butler was a friend of the hated Bullock!

Scarlett, with her usual disregard of all matters not directly
under her nose, had scarcely known an election was being held.
Rhett had taken no part in the election and his relations with the
Yankees were no different from what they had always been. But the
fact remained that Rhett was a Scallawag and a friend of Bullock.
And, if the marriage went through, Scarlett also would be turning
Scallawag. Atlanta was in no mood to be tolerant or charitable
toward anyone in the enemy camp and, the news of the engagement
coming when it did, the town remembered all of the evil things
about the pair and none of the good.

Scarlett knew the town was rocking but she did not realize the
extent of public feeling until Mrs. Merriwether, urged on by her
church circle, took it upon herself to speak to her for her own
good.

"Because your own dear mother is dead and Miss Pitty, not being a
matron, is not qualified to--er, well, to talk to you upon such a
subject, I feel that I must warn you, Scarlett, Captain Butler is
not the kind of a man for any woman of good family to marry. He is
a--"

"He managed to save Grandpa Merriwether's neck and your nephew's,
too."

Mrs. Merriwether swelled. Hardly an hour before she had had an
irritating talk with Grandpa. The old man had remarked that she
must not value his hide very much if she did not feel some
gratitude to Rhett Butler, even if the man was a Scallawag and a
scoundrel.

"He only did that as a dirty trick on us all, Scarlett, to
embarrass us in front of the Yankees," Mrs. Merriwether continued.
"You know as well as I do that the man is a rogue. He always has
been and now he's unspeakable. He is simply not the kind of man
decent people receive."

"No? That's strange, Mrs. Merriwether. He was in your parlor
often enough during the war. And he gave Maybelle her white satin
wedding dress, didn't he? Or is my memory wrong?"

"Things are so different during the war and nice people associated
with many men who were not quite-- It was all for the Cause and
very proper, too. Surely you can't be thinking of marrying a man
who wasn't in the army, who jeered at men who did enlist?"

"He was, too, in the army. He was in the army eight months. He
was in the last campaign and fought at Franklin and was with
General Johnston when he surrendered."

"I had not heard that," said Mrs. Merriwether and she looked as if
she did not believe it either. "But he wasn't wounded," she added,
triumphantly.

"Lots of men weren't."

"Everybody who was anybody got wounded. _I_ know no one who wasn't
wounded."

Scarlett was goaded.

"Then I guess all the men you knew were such fools they didn't know
when to come in out of a shower of rain--or of minie balls. Now,
let me tell you this, Mrs. Merriwether, and you can take it back to
your busybody friends. I'm going to marry Captain Butler and I
wouldn't care if he'd fought on the Yankee side."

When that worthy matron went out of the house with her bonnet
jerking with rage, Scarlett knew she had an open enemy now instead
of a disapproving friend. But she did not care. Nothing Mrs.
Merriwether could say or do could hurt her. She did not care what
anyone said--anyone except Mammy.

Scarlett had borne with Pitty's swooning at the news and had
steeled herself to see Ashley look suddenly old and avoid her eyes
as he wished her happiness. She had been amused and irritated at
the letters from Aunt Pauline and Aunt Eulalie in Charleston,
horror struck at the news, forbidding the marriage, telling her it
would not only ruin her social position but endanger theirs. She
had even laughed when Melanie with a worried pucker in her brows
said loyally: "Of course, Captain Butler is much nicer than most
people realize and he was so kind and clever, the way he saved
Ashley. And after all, he did fight for the Confederacy. But,
Scarlett, don't you think you'd better not decide so hastily?"

No, she didn't mind what anybody said, except Mammy. Mammy's words
were the ones that made her most angry and brought the greatest
hurt.

"Ah has seed you do a heap of things dat would hu't Miss Ellen, did
she know. An' it has done sorrered me a plen'y. But disyere is de
wust yit. Mahyin' trash! Yas'm, Ah said trash! Doan go tellin'
me he come frum fine folkses. Dat doan mek no diffunce. Trash
come outer de high places, same as de low, and he trash! Yas'm,
Miss Scarlett, Ah's seed you tek Mist' Charles 'way frum Miss Honey
w'en you din' keer nuthin' 'bout him. An' Ah's seed you rob yo own
sister of Mist' Frank. An' Ah's heshed mah mouf 'bout a heap of
things you is done, lak sellin' po' lumber fer good, an' lyin'
'bout de other lumber gempmums, an' ridin' roun' by yo'seff,
exposin' yo'seff ter free issue niggers an' gettin' Mist' Frank
shot, an' not feedin' dem po' convicts nuff ter keep dey souls in
dey bodies. Ah's done heshed mah mouf, even ef Miss Ellen in de
Promise Lan' wuz sayin' 'Mammy, Mammy! You ain' look affer mah
chile right!' Yas'm. Ah's stood fer all dat but Ah ain' gwine
stand fer dis, Miss Scarlett. You kain mahy wid trash. Not w'ile
Ah got breaf in mah body."

"I shall marry whom I please," said Scarlett coldly. "I think you
are forgetting your place, Mammy."

"An' high time, too! Ef Ah doan say dese wuds ter you, who gwine
ter do it?"

"I've been thinking the matter over, Mammy, and I've decided that
the best thing for you to do is to go back to Tara. I'll give you
some money and--"

Mammy drew herself up with all her dignity.

"Ah is free, Miss Scarlett. You kain sen' me nowhar Ah doan wanter
go. An' w'en Ah goes back ter Tara, it's gwine be w'en you goes
wid me. Ah ain' gwine leave Miss Ellen's chile, an' dar ain' no
way in de worl' ter mek me go. An' Ah ain' gwine leave Miss
Ellen's gran'chillun fer no trashy step-pa ter bring up, needer.
Hyah Ah is and hyah Ah stays!"

"I will not have you staying in my house and being rude to Captain
Butler. I am going to marry him and there's no more to be said."

"Dar is plen'y mo' ter be said," retorted Mammy slowly and into her
blurred old eyes there came the light of battle.

"But Ah ain' never thought ter say it ter none of Miss Ellen's
blood. But, Miss Scarlett, lissen ter me. You ain' nuthin' but a
mule in hawse harness. You kin polish a mule's feet an' shine his
hide an' put brass all over his harness an' hitch him ter a fine
cah'ige. But he a mule jes' de same. He doan fool nobody. An'
you is jes' de same. You got silk dresses an' de mills an' de sto'
an' de money, an' you give yo'seff airs lak a fine hawse, but you a
mule jes' de same. An' you ain' foolin' nobody, needer. An' dat
Butler man, he come of good stock and he all slicked up lak a race
hawse, but he a mule in hawse harness, jes' lak you."

Mammy bent a piercing look on her mistress. Scarlett was
speechless and quivering with insult.

"Ef you say you gwine mahy him, you gwine do it, 'cause you is
bullhaided lak yo' pa. But 'member dis, Miss Scarlett, Ah ain'
leavin' you. Ah gwine stay right hyah an' see dis ting thoo."

Without waiting for a reply, Mammy turned and left Scarlett and if
she had said: "Thou shalt see me at Philippi!" her tones would not
have been more ominous.

While they were honeymooning in New Orleans Scarlett told Rhett of
Mammy's words. To her surprise and indignation he laughed at
Mammy's statement about mules in horse harness.

"I have never heard a profound truth expressed so succinctly," he
said. "Mammy's a smart old soul and one of the few people I know
whose respect and good will I'd like to have. But, being a mule, I
suppose I'll never get either from her. She even refused the ten-
dollar gold piece which I, in my groomlike fervor, wished to
present her after the wedding. I've seen so few people who did not
melt at the sight of cash. But she looked me in the eye and
thanked me and said she wasn't a free issue nigger and didn't need
my money."

"Why should she take on so? Why should everybody gabble about me
like a bunch of guinea hens? It's my own affair whom I marry and
how often I marry. I've always minded my own business. Why don't
other people mind theirs?"

"My pet, the world can forgive practically anything except people
who mind their own business. But why should you squall like a
scalded cat? You've said often enough that you didn't mind what
people said about you. Why not prove it? You know you've laid
yourself open to criticism so often in small matters, you can't
expect to escape gossip in this large matter. You knew there'd be
talk if you married a villain like me. If I were a low-bred
poverty-stricken villain, people wouldn't be so mad. But a rich,
flourishing villain--of course, that's unforgivable."

"I wish you'd be serious sometimes!"

"I am serious. It's always annoying to the godly when the ungodly
flourish like the green bay tree. Cheer up, Scarlett, didn't you
tell me once that the main reason you wanted a lot of money was so
you could tell everybody to go to hell? Now's your chance."

"But you were the main one I wanted to tell to go to hell," said
Scarlett, and laughed.

"Do you still want to tell me to go to hell?"

"Well, not as often as I used to."

"Do it whenever you like, if it makes you happy."

"It doesn't make me especially happy," said Scarlett and, bending,
she kissed him carelessly. His dark eyes flickered quickly over
her face, hunting for something in her eyes which he did not find,
and he laughed shortly.

"Forget about Atlanta. Forget about the old cats. I brought you
to New Orleans to have fun and I intend that you shall have it."




Part Five



CHAPTER XLVIII


She did have fun, more fun than she had had since the spring before
the war. New Orleans was such a strange, glamorous place and
Scarlett enjoyed it with the headlong pleasure of a pardoned life
prisoner. The Carpetbaggers were looting the town, many honest
folk were driven from their homes and did not know where to look
for their next meal, and a negro sat in the lieutenant governor's
chair. But the New Orleans Rhett showed her was the gayest place
she had ever seen. The people she met seemed to have all the money
they wanted and no cares at all. Rhett introduced her to dozens of
women, pretty women in bright gowns, women who had soft hands that
showed no signs of hard work, women who laughed at everything and
never talked of stupid serious things or hard times. And the men
she met--how thrilling they were! And how different from Atlanta
men--and how they fought to dance with her, and paid her the most
extravagant compliments as though she were a young belle.

These men had the same hard reckless look Rhett wore. Their eyes
were always alert, like men who have lived too long with danger to
be ever quite careless. They seemed to have no pasts or futures,
and they politely discouraged Scarlett when, to make conversation,
she asked what or where they were before they came to New Orleans.
That, in itself, was strange, for in Atlanta every respectable
newcomer hastened to present his credentials, to tell proudly of
his home and family, to trace the tortuous mazes of relationship
that stretched over the entire South.

But these men were a taciturn lot, picking their words carefully.
Sometimes when Rhett was alone with them and Scarlett in the next
room, she heard laughter and caught fragments of conversation that
meant nothing to her, scraps of words, puzzling names--Cuba and
Nassau in the blockade days, the gold rush and claim jumping, gun
running and filibustering, Nicaragua and William Walker and how he
died against a wall at Truxillo. Once her sudden entrance abruptly
terminated a conversation about what had happened to the members of
Quantrill's band of guerillas, and she caught the names of Frank
and Jesse James.

But they were all well mannered, beautifully tailored, and they
evidently admired her, so it mattered little to Scarlett that they
chose to live utterly in the present. What really mattered was
that they were Rhett's friends and had large houses and fine
carriages, and they took her and Rhett driving, invited them to
suppers, gave parties in their honor. And Scarlett like them very
well. Rhett was amused when she told him so.

"I thought you would," he said and laughed.

"Why not?" her suspicions aroused as always by his laughter.

"They're all second-raters, black sheep, rascals. They're all
adventurers or Carpetbag aristocrats. They all made their money
speculating in food like your loving husband or out of dubious
government contracts or in shady ways that won't bear
investigation."

"I don't believe it. You're teasing. They're the nicest
people . . ."

"The nicest people in town are starving," said Rhett. "And living
politely in hovels, and I doubt if I'd be received in those hovels.
You see, my dear, I was engaged in some of my nefarious schemes
here during the war and these people have devilish long memories!
Scarlett, you are a constant joy to me. You unerringly manage to
pick the wrong people and the wrong things."

"But they are your friends!"

"Oh, but I like rascals. My early youth was spent as a gambler on
a river boat and I can understand people like that. But I'm not
blind to what they are. Whereas you"--he laughed again--"you have
no instinct about people, no discrimination between the cheap and
the great. Sometimes, I think that the only great ladies you've
ever associated with were your mother and Miss Melly and neither
seems to have made any impression on you."

"Melly! Why she's as plain as an old shoe and her clothes always
look tacky and she never has two words to say for herself!"

"Spare me your jealousy, Madam. Beauty doesn't make a lady, nor
clothes a great lady!"

"Oh, don't they! Just you wait, Rhett Butler, and I'll show you.
Now that I've--we've got money, I'm going to be the greatest lady
you ever saw!"

"I shall wait with interest," he said.

More exciting than the people she met were the frocks Rhett bought
her, superintending the choice of colors, materials and designs
himself. Hoops were out now, and the new styles were charming with
the skirts pulled back from the front and draped over bustles, and
on the bustles were wreaths of flowers and bows and cascades of
lace. She thought of the modest hoops of the war years and she
felt a little embarrassed at these new skirts which undeniably
outlined her abdomen. And the darling little bonnets that were not
really bonnets at all, but flat little affairs worn over one eye
and laden with fruits and flowers, dancing plumes and fluttering
ribbons! (If only Rhett had not been so silly and burned the false
curls she bought to augment her knot of Indian-straight hair that
peeked from the rear of these little hats!) And the delicate
convent-made underwear! How lovely it was and how many sets she
had! Chemises and nightgowns and petticoats of the finest linen
trimmed with dainty embroidery and infinitesimal tucks. And the
satin slippers Rhett bought her! They had heels three inches high
and huge glittering paste buckles on them. And silk stockings, a
dozen pairs and not a one had cotton tops! What riches!

She recklessly bought gifts for the family. A furry St. Bernard
puppy for Wade, who had always longed for one, a Persian kitten for
Beau, a coral bracelet for little Ella, a heavy necklace with
moonstone pendants for Aunt Pitty, a complete set of Shakespeare
for Melanie and Ashley, an elaborate livery for Uncle Peter,
including a high silk coachman's hat with a brush upon it, dress
lengths for Dilcey and Cookie, expensive gifts for everyone at
Tara.

"But what have you bought for Mammy?" questioned Rhett, looking
over the pile of gifts spread out on the bed in their hotel room,
and removing the puppy and kitten to the dressing room.

"Not a thing. She was hateful. Why should I bring her a present
when she called us mules?"

"Why should you so resent hearing the truth, my pet? You must
bring Mammy a present. It would break her heart if you didn't--and
hearts like hers are too valuable to be broken."

"I won't take her a thing. She doesn't deserve it."

"Then I'll buy her one. I remember my mammy always said that when
she went to Heaven she wanted a taffeta petticoat so stiff that it
would stand by itself and so rustly that the Lord God would think
it was made of angels' wings. I'll buy Mammy some red taffeta and
have an elegant petticoat made."

"She won't take it from you. She'd die rather than wear it."

"I don't doubt it. But I'll make the gesture just the same."

The shops of New Orleans were so rich and exciting and shopping
with Rhett was an adventure. Dining with him was an adventure too,
and one more thrilling than shopping, for he knew what to order and
how it should be cooked. The wines and liqueurs and champagnes of
New Orleans were new and exhilarating to her, acquainted with only
homemade blackberry and scuppernong vintages and Aunt Pitty's
"swoon" brandy; but oh, the food Rhett ordered! Best of all things
in New Orleans was the food. Remembering the bitter hungry days at
Tara and her more recent penury, Scarlett felt that she could never
eat enough of these rich dishes. Gumboes and shrimp Creole, doves
in wine and oysters in crumbly patties full of creamy sauce,
mushrooms and sweetbreads and turkey livers, fish baked cunningly
in oiled paper and limes. Her appetite never dulled, for whenever
she remembered the everlasting goobers and dried peas and sweet
potatoes at Tara, she felt an urge to gorge herself anew of Creole
dishes.

"You eat as though each meal were your last," said Rhett. "Don't
scrape the plate, Scarlett. I'm sure there's more in the kitchen.
You have only to ask the waiter. If you don't stop being such a
glutton, you'll be as fat as the Cuban ladies and then I shall
divorce you."

But she only put out her tongue at him and ordered another pastry,
thick with chocolate and stuffed with meringue.

What fun it was to be able to spend as much money as you liked and
not count pennies and feel that you should save them to pay taxes
or buy mules. What fun to be with people who were gay and rich and
not genteelly poor like Atlanta people. What fun to wear rustling
brocade dresses that showed your waist and all your neck and arms
and more than a little of your breast and know that men were
admiring you. And what fun to eat all you wanted without having
censorious people say you weren't ladylike. And what fun to drink
all the champagne you pleased. The first time she drank too much,
she was embarrassed when she awoke the next morning with a
splitting headache and an awful memory of singing "Bonnie Blue
Flag" all the way back to the hotel, through the streets of New
Orleans, in an open carriage. She had never seen a lady even
tipsy, and the only drunken woman she had ever seen had been that
Watling creature on the day when Atlanta fell. She hardly knew how
to face Rhett, so great was her humiliation, but the affair seemed
only to amuse him. Everything she did seemed to amuse him, as
though she were a gamboling kitten.

It was exciting to go out with him for he was so handsome. Somehow
she had never given his looks a thought before, and in Atlanta
everyone had been too preoccupied with his shortcomings ever to
talk about his appearance. But here in New Orleans she could see
how the eyes of other women followed him and how they fluttered
when he bent over their hands. The realization that other women
were attracted by her husband, and perhaps envied her, made her
suddenly proud to be seen by his side.

"Why, we're a handsome people," thought Scarlett with pleasure.

Yes, as Rhett had prophesied, marriage could be a lot of fun. Not
only was it fun but she was learning many things. That was odd in
itself, because Scarlett had thought life could teach her no more.
Now she felt like a child, every day on the brink of a new
discovery.

First, she learned that marriage with Rhett was a far different
matter from marriage with either Charles or Frank. They had
respected her and been afraid of her temper. They had begged for
favors and if it pleased her, she had bestowed them. Rhett did not
fear her and, she often thought, did not respect her very much
either. What he wanted to do, he did, and if she did not like it,
he laughed at her. She did not love him but he was undoubtedly an
exciting person to live with. The most exciting thing about him
was that even in his outbursts of passion which were flavored
sometimes with cruelty, sometimes with irritating amusement, he
seemed always to be holding himself under restraint, always riding
his emotions with a curb bit.

"I guess that's because he isn't really in love with me," she
thought and was content enough with the state of affairs. "I
should hate for him to ever turn completely loose in any way." But
still the thought of the possibility teased her curiosity in an
exciting way.

Living with Rhett, she learned many new things about him, and she
had thought she knew him so well. She learned that his voice could
be as silky as a cat's fur one moment and crisp and crackling with
oaths the next. He could tell, with apparent sincerity and
approval, stories of courage and honor and virtue and love in the
odd places he had been, and follow them with ribald stories of
coldest cynicism. She knew no man should tell such stories to his
wife but they were entertaining and they appealed to something
coarse and earthy in her. He could be an ardent, almost a tender,
lover for a brief while, and almost immediately a mocking devil who
ripped the lid from her gunpowder temper, fired it and enjoyed the
explosion. She learned that his compliments were always two edged
and his tenderest expressions open to suspicion. In fact, in those
two weeks in New Orleans, she learned everything about him except
what he really was.

Some mornings he dismissed the maid and brought her the breakfast
tray himself and fed her as though she were a child, took the
hairbrush from her hand and brushed her long dark hair until it
snapped and crackled. Yet other mornings she was torn rudely out
of deep slumber when he snatched all the bed covers from her and
tickled her bare feet. Sometimes he listened with dignified
interest to details of her businesses, nodding approval at her
sagacity, and at other times he called her somewhat dubious
tradings scavenging, highway robbery and extortion. He took her to
plays and annoyed her by whispering that God probably didn't
approve of such amusements, and to churches and, sotto voce,
retailed funny obscenities and then reproved her for laughing. He
encouraged her to speak her mind, to be flippant and daring. She
picked up from him the gift of stinging words and sardonic phrases
and learned to relish using them for the power they gave her over
other people. But she did not possess his sense of humor which
tempered his malice, nor his smile that jeered at himself even
while he was jeering others.

He made her play and she had almost forgotten how. Life had been
so serious and so bitter. He knew how to play and swept her along
with him. But he never played like a boy; he was a man and no
matter what he did, she could never forget it. She could not look
down on him from the heights of womanly superiority, smiling as
women have always smiled at the antics of men who are boys at
heart.

This annoyed her a little, whenever she thought of it. It would be
pleasant to feel superior to Rhett. All the other men she had
known she could dismiss with a half-contemptuous "What a child!"
Her father, the Tarleton twins with their love of teasing and their
elaborate practical jokes, the hairy little Fontaines with their
childish rages, Charles, Frank, all the men who had paid court to
her during the war--everyone, in fact, except Ashley. Only Ashley
and Rhett eluded her understanding and her control for they were
both adults, and the elements of boyishness were lacking in them.

She did not understand Rhett, nor did she trouble to understand
him, though there were things about him which occasionally puzzled
her. There was the way he looked at her sometimes, when he thought
she was unaware. Turning quickly she frequently caught him
watching her, an alert, eager, waiting look in his eyes.

"Why do you look at me like that?" she once asked irritably. "Like
a cat at a mouse hole!"

But his face had changed swiftly and he only laughed. Soon she
forgot it and did not puzzle her head about it any more, or about
anything concerning Rhett. He was too unpredictable to bother
about and life was very pleasant--except when she thought of
Ashley.

Rhett kept her too busy to think of Ashley often. Ashley was
hardly ever in her thoughts during the day but at night when she
was tired from dancing or her head was spinning from too much
champagne--then she thought of Ashley. Frequently when she lay
drowsily in Rhett's arms with the moonlight streaming over the bed,
she thought how perfect life would be if it were only Ashley's arms
which held her so closely, if it were only Ashley who drew her
black hair across his face and wrapped it about his throat.

Once when she was thinking this, she sighed and turned her head
toward the window, and after a moment she felt the heavy arm
beneath her neck become like iron, and Rhett's voice spoke in the
stillness: "May God damn your cheating little soul to hell for all
eternity!"

And, getting up, he put on his clothes and left the room despite
her startled protests and questions. He reappeared the next
morning as she was breakfasting in her room, disheveled, quite
drunk and in his worst sarcastic mood, and neither made excuses nor
gave an account of his absence.

Scarlett asked no questions and was quite cool to him, as became an
injured wife, and when she had finished the meal, she dressed under
his bloodshot gaze and went shopping. He was gone when she
returned and did not appear again until time for supper.

It was a silent meal and Scarlett's temper was straining because it
was her last supper in New Orleans and she wanted to do justice to
the crawfish. And she could not enjoy it under his gaze.
Nevertheless she ate a large one, and drank a quantity of
champagne. Perhaps it was this combination that brought back her
old nightmare that evening, for she awoke, cold with sweat, sobbing
brokenly. She was back at Tara again and Tara was desolate.
Mother was dead and with her all the strength and wisdom of the
world. Nowhere in the world was there anyone to turn to, anyone to
rely upon. And something terrifying was pursuing her and she was
running, running till her heart was bursting, running in a thick
swimming fog, crying out, blindly seeking that nameless, unknown
haven of safety that was somewhere in the mist about her.

Rhett was leaning over her when she woke, and without a word he
picked her up in his arms like a child and held her close, his hard
muscles comforting, his wordless murmuring soothing, until her
sobbing ceased.

"Oh, Rhett. I was so cold and so hungry and so tired and I
couldn't find it. I ran through the mist and I ran but I couldn't
find it."

"Find what, honey?"

"I don't know. I wish I did know."

"Is it your old dream?"

"Oh, yes!"

He gently placed her on the bed, fumbled in the darkness and lit a
candle. In the light his face with bloodshot eyes and harsh lines
was as unreadable as stone. His shirt, opened to the waist, showed
a brown chest covered with thick black hair. Scarlett, still
shaking with fright, thought how strong and unyielding that chest
was, and she whispered: "Hold me, Rhett."

"Darling!" he said swiftly, and picking her up he sat down in a
large chair, cradling her body against him.

"Oh, Rhett, it's awful to be hungry."

"It must be awful to dream of starvation after a seven-course
dinner including that enormous crawfish." He smiled but his eyes
were kind.

"Oh, Rhett, I just run and run and hunt and I can't ever find what
it is I'm hunting for. It's always hidden in the mist. I know if
I could find it, I'd be safe forever and ever and never be cold or
hungry again."

"Is it a person or a thing you're hunting?"

"I don't know. I never thought about it. Rhett, do you think I'll
ever dream that I get there to safety?"

"No," he said, smoothing her tumbled hair, "I don't. Dreams aren't
like that. But I do think that if you get used to being safe and
warm and well fed in your everyday life, you'll stop dreaming that
dream. And, Scarlett, I'm going to see that you are safe."

"Rhett, you are so nice."

"Thanks for the crumbs from your table, Mrs. Dives. Scarlett, I
want you to say to yourself every morning when you wake up: 'I
can't ever be hungry again and nothing can ever touch me so long as
Rhett is here and the United States government holds out.'"

"The United States government?" she questioned, sitting up,
startled, tears still on her cheeks.

"The ex-Confederate money has now become an honest woman. I
invested most of it in government bonds."

"God's nightgown!" cried Scarlett, sitting up in his lap, forgetful
of her recent terror. "Do you mean to tell me you've loaned your
money to the Yankees?"

"At a fair per cent."

"I don't care if it's a hundred percent! You must sell them
immediately. The idea of letting the Yankees have the use of your
money!"

"And what must I do with it?" he questioned with a smile, noting
that her eyes were no longer wide with fright.

"Why--why buy property at Five Points. I'll bet you could buy all
of Five Points with the money you have."

"Thank you, but I wouldn't have Five Points. Now that the
Carpetbagger government has really gotten control of Georgia,
there's no telling what may happen. I wouldn't put anything beyond
the swarm of buzzards that's swooping down on Georgia now from
north, east, south and west. I'm playing along with them, you
understand, as a good Scallawag should do, but I don't trust them.
And I'm not putting my money in real estate. I prefer bonds. You
can hide them. You can't hide real estate very easily."

"Do you think--" she began, paling as she thought of the mills and
store.

"I don't know. But don't look so frightened, Scarlett. Our
charming new governor is a good friend of mine. It's just that
times are too uncertain now and I don't want much of my money tied
up in real estate."

He shifted her to one knee and, leaning back, reached for a cigar
and lit it. She sat with her bare feet dangling, watching the play
of muscles on his brown chest, her terrors forgotten.

"And while we are on the subject of real estate, Scarlett," he
said, "I am going to build a house. You might have bullied Frank
into living in Miss Pitty's house, but not me. I don't believe I
could bear her vaporings three times a day and, moreover, I believe
Uncle Peter would assassinate me before he would let me live under
the sacred Hamilton roof. Miss Pitty can get Miss India Wilkes to
stay with her and keep the bogyman away. When we get back to
Atlanta we are going to stay in the bridal suite of the National
Hotel until our house is finished. Before we left Atlanta I was
dickering for that big lot on Peachtree, the one near the Leyden
house. You know the one I mean?"

"Oh, Rhett, how lovely! I do so want a house of my own. A great
big one!"

"Then at last we are agreed on something. What about a white
stucco with wrought-iron work like these Creole houses here?"

"Oh, no, Rhett. Not anything old fashioned like these New Orleans
houses. I know just what I want. It's the newest thing because I
saw a picture of it in--let me see--it was in that Harper's Weekly
I was looking at. It was modeled after a Swiss chalet."

"A Swiss what?"

"A chalet."

"Spell it."

She complied.

"Oh," he said and stroked his mustache.

"It was lovely. It had a high mansard roof with a picket fence on
top and a tower made of fancy shingles at each end. And the towers
had windows with red and blue glass in them. It was so stylish
looking."

"I suppose it had jigsaw work on the porch banisters?"

"Yes."

"And a fringe of wooden scrollwork hanging from the roof of the
porch?"

"Yes. You must have seen one like it."

"I have--but not in Switzerland. The Swiss are a very intelligent
race and keenly alive to architectural beauty. Do you really want
a house like that?"

"Oh, yes!"

"I had hoped that association with me might improve your taste.
Why not a Creole house or a Colonial with six white columns?"

"I tell you I don't want anything tacky and old-fashioned looking.
And inside let's have red wall paper and red velvet portieres over
all the folding doors and oh, lots of expensive walnut furniture
and grand thick carpets and--oh, Rhett, everybody will be pea green
when they see our house!"

"It is very necessary that everyone shall be envious? Well, if you
like they shall be green. But, Scarlett, has it occurred to you
that it's hardly in good taste to furnish the house on so lavish a
scale when everyone is so poor?"

"I want it that way," she said obstinately. "I want to make
everybody who's been mean to me feel bad. And we'll give big
receptions that'll make the whole town wish they hadn't said such
nasty things."

"But who will come to our receptions?"

"Why, everybody, of course."

"I doubt it. The Old Guard dies but it never surrenders."

"Oh, Rhett, how you run on! If you've got money, people always
like you."

"Not Southerners. It's harder for speculators' money to get into
the best parlors than for the camel to go through the needle's eye.
And as for Scallawags--that's you and me, my pet--we'll be lucky if
we aren't spit upon. But if you'd like to try, I'll back you, my
dear, and I'm sure I shall enjoy your campaign intensely. And
while we are on the subject of money, let me make this clear to
you. You can have all the cash you want for the house and all you
want for your fal-lals. And if you like jewelry, you can have it
but I'm going to pick it out. You have such execrable taste, my
pet. And anything you want for Wade or Ella. And if Will Benteen
can't make a go of the cotton, I'm willing to chip in and help out
on that white elephant in Clayton County that you love so much.
That's fair enough, isn't it?"

"Of course. You're very generous."

"But listen closely. Not one cent for the store and not one cent
for that kindling factory of yours."

"Oh," said Scarlett, her face falling. All during the honeymoon
she had been thinking how she could bring up the subject of the
thousand dollars she needed to buy fifty feet more of land to
enlarge her lumber yard.

"I thought you always bragged about being broad minded and not
caring what people said about my running a business, and you're
just like every other man--so afraid people will say I wear the
pants in the family."

"There's never going to be any doubt in anybody's mind about who
wears the pants in the Butler family," drawled Rhett. "I don't
care what fools say. In fact, I'm ill bred enough to be proud of
having a smart wife. I want you to keep on running the store and
the mills. They are your children's. When Wade grows up he won't
feel right about being supported by his stepfather, and then he can
take over the management. But not one cent of mine goes into
either business."

"Why?"

"Because I don't care to contribute to the support of Ashley
Wilkes."

"Are you going to begin that again?"

"No. But you asked my reasons and I have given them. And another
thing. Don't think you can juggle books on me and lie about how
much your clothes cost and how much it takes to run the house, so
that you can use the money to buy more mules or another mill for
Ashley. I intend to look over and carefully check your expenditures
and I know what things cost. Oh, don't get insulted. You'd do it.
I wouldn't put it beyond you. In fact, I wouldn't put anything
beyond you where either Tara or Ashley is concerned. I don't mind
Tara. But I must draw the line at Ashley. I'm riding you with a
slack rein, my pet, but don't forget that I'm riding with curb and
spurs just the same."




CHAPTER XLIX


Mrs. Elsing cocked her ear toward the hall. Hearing Melanie's
steps die away into the kitchen where rattling dishes and clinking
silverware gave promise of refreshments, she turned and spoke
softly to the ladies who sat in a circle in the parlor, their
sewing baskets in their laps.

"Personally, I do not intend to call on Scarlett now or ever," she
said, the chill elegance of her face colder than usual.

The other members of the Ladies' Sewing Circle for the Widows and
Orphans of the Confederacy eagerly laid down their needles and
edged their rocking chairs closer. All the ladies had been
bursting to discuss Scarlett and Rhett but Melanie's presence
prevented it. Just the day before, the couple had returned from
New Orleans and they were occupying the bridal suite at the
National Hotel.

"Hugh says that I must call out of courtesy for the way Captain
Butler saved his life," Mrs. Elsing continued. "And poor Fanny
sides with him and says she will call too. I said to her 'Fanny,'
I said, 'if it wasn't for Scarlett, Tommy would be alive this
minute. It is an insult to his memory to call.' And Fanny had no
better sense than to say, 'Mother, I'm not calling on Scarlett.
I'm calling on Captain Butler. He tried his best to save Tommy and
it wasn't his fault if he failed.'"

"How silly young people are!" said Mrs. Merriwether. "Call,
indeed!" Her stout bosom swelled indignantly as she remembered
Scarlett's rude reception of her advice on marrying Rhett. "My
Maybelle is just as silly as your Fanny. She says she and Rene
will call, because Captain Butler kept Rene from getting hanged.
And I said if it hadn't been for Scarlett exposing herself, Rene
would never have been in any danger. And Father Merriwether
intends to call and he talks like he was in his dotage and says
he's grateful to that scoundrel, even if I'm not. I vow, since
Father Merriwether was in that Watling creature's house he has
acted in a disgraceful way. Call, indeed! I certainly shan't
call. Scarlett has outlawed herself by marrying such a man. He
was bad enough when he was a speculator during the war and making
money out of our hunger but now that he is hand in glove with the
Carpetbaggers and Scallawags and a friend--actually a friend of
that odious wretch, Governor Bullock-- Call, indeed!"

Mrs. Bonnell sighed. She was a plump brown wren of a woman with a
cheerful face.

"They'll only call once, for courtesy, Dolly. I don't know that I
blame them. I've heard that all the men who were out that night
intend to call, and I think they should. Somehow, it's hard for me
to think that Scarlett is her mother's child. I went to school
with Ellen Robillard in Savannah and there was never a lovelier
girl than she was and she was very dear to me. If only her father
had not opposed her match with her cousin, Philippe Robillard!
There was nothing really wrong with the boy--boys must sow their
wild oats. But Ellen must run off and marry old man O'Hara and
have a daughter like Scarlett. But really, I feel that I must call
once out of memory to Ellen."

"Sentimental nonsense!" snorted Mrs. Merriwether with vigor.
"Kitty Bonnell, are you going to call on a woman who married a bare
year after her husband's death? A woman--"

"And she really killed Mr. Kennedy," interrupted India. Her voice
was cool but acid. Whenever she thought of Scarlett it was hard
for her even to be polite, remembering, always remembering Stuart
Tarleton. "And I have always thought there was more between her
and that Butler man before Mr. Kennedy was killed than most people
suspected."

Before the ladies could recover from their shocked astonishment at
her statement and at a spinster mentioning such a matter, Melanie
was standing in the doorway. So engrossed had they been in their
gossip that they had not heard her light tread and now, confronted
by their hostess, they looked like whispering schoolgirls caught by
a teacher. Alarm was added to consternation at the change in
Melanie's face. She was pink with righteous anger, her gentle eyes
snapping fire, her nostrils quivering. No one had ever seen
Melanie angry before. Not a lady present thought her capable of
wrath. They all loved her but they thought her the sweetest, most
pliable of young women, deferential to her elders and without any
opinions of her own.

"How dare you, India?" she questioned in a low voice that shook.
"Where will your jealousy lead you? For shame!"

India's face went white but her head was high.

"I retract nothing," she said briefly. But her mind was seething.

"Jealous, am I?" she thought. With the memory of Stuart Tarleton
and of Honey and Charles, didn't she have good reason to be jealous
of Scarlett? Didn't she have good reason to hate her, especially
now that she had a suspicion that Scarlett had somehow entangled
Ashley in her web? She thought: "There's plenty I could tell you
about Ashley and your precious Scarlett." India was torn between
the desire to shield Ashley by her silence and to extricate him by
telling all her suspicions to Melanie and the whole world. That
would force Scarlett to release whatever hold she had on Ashley.
But this was not the time. She had nothing definite, only
suspicions.

"I retract nothing," she repeated.

"Then it is fortunate that you are no longer living under my roof,"
said Melanie and her words were cold.

India leaped to her feet, red flooding her sallow face.

"Melanie, you--my sister-in-law--you aren't going to quarrel with
me over that fast piece--"

"Scarlett is my sister-in-law, too," said Melanie, meeting India's
eyes squarely as though they were strangers. "And dearer to me
than any blood sister could ever be. If you are so forgetful of my
favors at her hands, I am not. She stayed with me through the
whole siege when she could have gone home, when even Aunt Pitty had
run away to Macon. She brought my baby for me when the Yankees
were almost in Atlanta and she burdened herself with me and Beau
all that dreadful trip to Tara when she could have left me here in
a hospital for the Yankees to get me. And she nursed and fed me,
even if she was tired and even if she went hungry. Because I was
sick and weak, I had the best mattress at Tara. When I could walk,
I had the only whole pair of shoes. You can forget those things
she did for me, India, but I cannot. And when Ashley came home,
sick, discouraged, without a home, without a cent in his pockets,
she took him in like a sister. And when we thought we would have
to go North and it was breaking our hearts to leave Georgia,
Scarlett stepped in and gave him the mill to run. And Captain
Butler saved Ashley's life out of the kindness of his heart.
Certainly Ashley had no claim on him! And I am grateful, grateful
to Scarlett and to Captain Butler. But you, India! How can you
forget the favors Scarlett has done me and Ashley? How can you
hold your brother's life so cheap as to cast slurs on the man who
saved him? If you went down on your knees to Captain Butler and
Scarlett, it would not be enough."

"Now, Melly," began Mrs. Merriwether briskly, for she had recovered
her composure, "that's no way to talk to India."

"I heard what you said about Scarlett too," cried Melanie, swinging
on the stout old lady with the air of a duelist who, having
withdrawn a blade from one prostrate opponent, turns hungrily
toward another. "And you too, Mrs. Elsing. What you think of her
in your own petty minds, I do not care, for that is your business.
But what you say about her in my own house or in my own hearing,
ever, is my business. But how can you even think such dreadful
things, much less say them? Are your men so cheap to you that you
would rather see them dead than alive? Have you no gratitude to
the man who saved them and saved them at risk of his own life? The
Yankees might easily have thought him a member of the Klan if the
whole truth had come out! They might have hanged him. But he
risked himself for your men. For your father-in-law, Mrs.
Merriwether, and your son-in-law and your two nephews, too. And
your brother, Mrs. Bonnell, and your son and son-in-law, Mrs.
Elsing. Ingrates, that's what you are! I ask an apology from all
of you."

Mrs. Elsing was on her feet cramming her sewing into her box, her
mouth set.

"If anyone had ever told me that you could be so ill bred, Melly--
No, I will not apologize. India is right. Scarlett is a flighty,
fast bit of baggage. I can't forget how she acted during the war.
And I can't forget how poor white trashy she's acted since she got
a little money--"

"What you can't forget," cut in Melanie, clenching her small fists
against her sides, "is that she demoted Hugh because he wasn't
smart enough to run her mill."

"Melly!" moaned a chorus of voices.

Mrs. Elsing's head jerked up and she started toward the door. With
her hand on the knob of the front door, she stopped and turned.

"Melly," she said and her voice softened, "honey, this breaks my
heart. I was your mother's best friend and I helped Dr. Meade
bring you into this world and I've loved you like you were mine.
If it were something that mattered it wouldn't be so hard to hear
you talk like this. But about a woman like Scarlett O'Hara who'd
just as soon do you a dirty turn as the next of us--"

Tears had started in Melanie's eyes at the first words Mrs. Elsing
spoke, but her face hardened when the old lady had finished.

"I want it understood," she said, "that any of you who do not call
on Scarlett need never, never call on me."

There was a loud murmur of voices, confusion as the ladies got to
their feet. Mrs. Elsing dropped her sewing box on the floor and
came back into the room, her false fringe jerking awry.

"I won't have it!" she cried. "I won't have it! You are beside
yourself, Melly, and I don't hold you responsible. You shall be my
friend and I shall be yours. I refuse to let this come between
us."

She was crying and somehow, Melanie was in her arms, crying too,
but declaring between sobs that she meant every word she said.
Several of the other ladies burst into tears and Mrs. Merriwether,
trumpeting loudly into her handkerchief, embraced both Mrs. Elsing
and Melanie. Aunt Pitty, who had been a petrified witness to the
whole scene, suddenly slid to the floor in what was one of the few
real fainting spells she had ever had. Amid the tears and
confusion and kissing and scurrying for smelling salts and brandy,
there was only one calm face, one dry pair of eyes. India Wilkes
took her departure unnoticed by anyone.

Grandpa Merriwether, meeting Uncle Henry Hamilton in the Girl of
the Period Saloon several hours later, related the happenings of
the morning which he had heard from Mrs. Merriweather. He told it
with relish for he was delighted that someone had the courage to
face down his redoubtable daughter-in-law. Certainly, he had never
had such courage.

"Well, what did the pack of silly fools finally decide to do?"
asked Uncle Henry irritably.

"I dunno for sure," said Grandpa, "but it looks to me like Melly
won hands down on this go-round. I'll bet they'll all call, at
least once. Folks set a store by that niece of yours, Henry."

"Melly's a fool and the ladies are right. Scarlett is a slick
piece of baggage and I don't see why Charlie ever married her,"
said Uncle Henry gloomily. "But Melly was right too, in a way.
It's only decent that the families of the men Captain Butler saved
should call. When you come right down to it, I haven't got so much
against Butler. He showed himself a fine man that night he saved
our hides. It's Scarlett who sticks under my tail like a
cocklebur. She's a sight too smart for her own good. Well, I've
got to call. Scallawag or not, Scarlett is my niece by marriage,
after all. I was aiming to call this afternoon."

"I'll go with you, Henry. Dolly will be fit to be tied when she
hears I've gone. Wait till I get one more drink."

"No, we'll get a drink off Captain Butler. I'll say this for him,
he always has good licker."



Rhett had said that the Old Guard would never surrender and he was
right. He knew how little significance there was to the few calls
made upon them, and he knew why the calls were made. The families
of the men who had been in the ill-starred Klan foray did call
first, but called with obvious infrequency thereafter. And they
did not invite the Rhett Butlers to their homes.

Rhett said they would not have come at all, except for fear of
violence at the hands of Melanie. Where he got this idea, Scarlett
did not know but she dismissed it with the contempt it deserved.
For what possible influence could Melanie have on people like Mrs.
Elsing and Mrs. Merriwether? That they did not call again worried
her very little; in fact, their absence was hardly noticed, for her
suite was crowded with guests of another type. "New people,"
established Atlantians called them, when they were not calling them
something less polite.

There were many "new people" staying at the National Hotel who,
like Rhett and Scarlett, were waiting for their houses to be
completed. They were gay, wealthy people, very much like Rhett's
New Orleans friends, elegant of dress, free with their money, vague
as to their antecedents. All the men were Republicans and were "in
Atlanta on business connected with the state government." Just
what the business was, Scarlett did not know and did not trouble to
learn.

Rhett could have told her exactly what it was--the same business
that buzzards have with dying animals. They smelled death from
afar and were drawn unerringly to it, to gorge themselves.
Government of Georgia by its own citizens was dead, the state was
helpless and the adventurers were swarming in.

The wives of Rhett's Scallawag and Carpetbagger friends called in
droves and so did the "new people" she had met when she sold lumber
for their homes. Rhett said that, having done business with them,
she should receive them and, having received them, she found them
pleasant company. They wore lovely clothes and never talked about
the war or hard times, but confined the conversation to fashions,
scandals and whist. Scarlett had never played cards before and she
took to whist with joy, becoming a good player in a short time.

Whenever she was at the hotel there was a crowd of whist players in
her suite. But she was not often in her suite these days, for she
was too busy with the building of her new house to be bothered with
callers. These days she did not much care whether she had callers
or not. She wanted to delay her social activities until the day
when the house was finished and she could emerge as the mistress of
Atlanta's largest mansion, the hostess of the town's most elaborate
entertainments.

Through the long warm days she watched her red stone and gray
shingle house rise grandly, to tower above any other house on
Peachtree Street. Forgetful of the store and the mills, she spent
her time on the lot, arguing with carpenters, bickering with
masons, harrying the contractor. As the walls went swiftly up she
thought with satisfaction that, when finished, it would be larger
and finer looking than any other house in town. It would be even
more imposing than the near-by James residence which had just been
purchased for the official mansion of Governor Bullock.

The governor's mansion was brave with jigsaw work on banisters and
eaves, but the intricate scrollwork on Scarlett's house put the
mansion to shame. The mansion had a ballroom, but it looked like a
billiard table compared with the enormous room that covered the
entire third floor of Scarlett's house. In fact, her house had
more of everything than the mansion, or any other house in town for
that matter, more cupolas and turrets and towers and balconies and
lightning rods and far more windows with colored panes.

A veranda encircled the entire house, and four flights of steps on
the four sides of the building led up to it. The yard was wide and
green and scattered about it were rustic iron benches, an iron
summerhouse, fashionably called a "gazebo" which, Scarlett had been
assured, was of pure Gothic design, and two large iron statues, one
a stag and the other a mastiff as large as a Shetland pony. To
Wade and Ella, a little dazzled by the size, splendor and fashionable
dark gloom of their new home, these two metal animals were the only
cheerful notes.

Within, the house was furnished as Scarlett had desired, with thick
red carpeting which ran from wall to wall, red velvet portieres and
the newest of highly varnished black-walnut furniture, carved
wherever there was an inch for carving and upholstered in such
slick horsehair that ladies had to deposit themselves thereon with
great care for fear of sliding off. Everywhere on the walls were
gilt-framed mirrors and long pier glasses--as many, Rhett said
idly, as there were in Belle Watling's establishment. Interspread
were steel engravings in heavy frames, some of them eight feet
long, which Scarlett had ordered especially from New York. The
walls were covered with rich dark paper, the ceilings were high and
the house was always dim, for the windows were overdraped with
plum-colored plush hangings that shut out most of the sunlight.

All in all it was an establishment to take one's breath away and
Scarlett, stepping on the soft carpets and sinking into the embrace
of the deep feather beds, remembered the cold floors and the straw-
stuffed bedticks of Tara and was satisfied. She thought it the
most beautiful and most elegantly furnished house she had ever
seen, but Rhett said it was a nightmare. However, if it made her
happy, she was welcome to it.

"A stranger without being told a word about us would know this
house was built with ill-gotten gains," he said. "You know,
Scarlett, money ill come by never comes to good and this house is
proof of the axiom. It's just the kind of house a profiteer would
build."

But Scarlett, abrim with pride and happiness and full of plans for
the entertainments she would give when they were thoroughly settled
in the house, only pinched his ear playfully and said: "Fiddle-
dee-dee! How you do run on!"

She knew, by now, that Rhett loved to take her down a peg, and
would spoil her fun whenever he could, if she lent an attentive ear
to his jibes. Should she take him seriously, she would be forced
to quarrel with him and she did not care to match swords, for she
always came off second best. So she hardly ever listened to
anything he said, and what she was forced to hear she tried to turn
off as a joke. At least, she tried for a while.

During their honeymoon and for the greater part of their stay at
the National Hotel, they had lived together with amiability. But
scarcely had they moved into the new house and Scarlett gathered
her new friends about her, when sudden sharp quarrels sprang up
between them. They were brief quarrels, short lived because it was
impossible to keep a quarrel going with Rhett, who remained coolly
indifferent to her hot words and waited his chance to pink her in
an unguarded spot. She quarreled; Rhett did not. He only stated
his unequivocal opinion of herself, her actions, her house and her
new friends. And some of his opinions were of such a nature that
she could no longer ignore them and treat them as jokes.

For instance when she decided to change the name of "Kennedy's
General Store" to something more edifying, she asked him to think
of a title that would include the word "emporium." Rhett suggested
"Caveat Emptorium," assuring her that it would be a title most in
keeping with the type of goods sold in the store. She thought it
had an imposing sound and even went so far as to have the sign
painted, when Ashley Wilkes, embarrassed, translated the real
meaning. And Rhett had roared at her rage.

And there was the way he treated Mammy. Mammy had never yielded an
inch from her stand that Rhett was a mule in horse harness. She
was polite but cold to Rhett. She always called him "Cap'n
Butler," never "Mist' Rhett." She never even dropped a curtsy when
Rhett presented her with the red petticoat and she never wore it
either. She kept Ella and Wade out of Rhett's way whenever she
could, despite the fact that Wade adored Uncle Rhett and Rhett was
obviously fond of the boy. But instead of discharging Mammy or
being short and stern with her, Rhett treated her with the utmost
deference, with far more courtesy than he treated any of the ladies
of Scarlett's recent acquaintance. In fact, with more courtesy
than he treated Scarlett herself. He always asked Mammy's
permission to take Wade riding and consulted with her before he
bought Ella dolls. And Mammy was hardly polite to him.

Scarlett felt that Rhett should be firm with Mammy, as became the
head of the house, but Rhett only laughed and said that Mammy was
the real head of the house.

He infuriated Scarlett by saying coolly that he was preparing to be
very sorry for her some years hence, when the Republican rule was
gone from Georgia and the Democrats back in power.

"When the Democrats get a governor and a legislature of their own,
all your new vulgar Republican friends will be wiped off the chess
board and sent back to minding bars and emptying slops where they
belong. And you'll be left out on the end of a limb, with never a
Democratic friend or a Republican either. Well, take no thought of
the morrow."

Scarlett laughed, and with some justice, for at that time, Bullock
was safe in the governor's chair, twenty-seven negroes were in the
legislature and thousands of the Democratic voters of Georgia were
disfranchised.

"The Democrats will never get back. All they do is make Yankees
madder and put off the day when they could get back. All they do
is talk big and run around at night Ku Kluxing."

"They will get back. I know Southerners. I know Georgians. They
are a tough and bullheaded lot. If they've got to fight another
war to get back, they'll fight another war. If they've got to buy
black votes like the Yankees have done, then they will buy black
votes. If they've got to vote ten thousand dead men like the
Yankees did, every corpse in every cemetery in Georgia will be at
the polls. Things are going to get so bad under the benign rule of
our good friend Rufus Bullock that Georgia is going to vomit him
up.

"Rhett, don't use such vulgar words!" cried Scarlett. "You talk
like I wouldn't be glad to see the Democrats come back! And you
know that isn't so! I'd be very glad to see them back. Do you
think I like to see these soldiers hanging around, reminding me of--
do you think I like--why, I'm a Georgian, too! I'd like to see
the Democrats get back. But they won't. Not ever. And even if
they did, how would that affect my friends? They'd still have
their money, wouldn't they?"

"If they kept their money. But I doubt the ability of any of them
to keep money more than five years at the rate they're spending.
Easy come, easy go. Their money won't do them any good. Any more
than my money has done you any good. It certainly hasn't made a
horse out of you yet, has it, my pretty mule?"

The quarrel which sprang from this last remark lasted for days.
After the fourth day of Scarlett's sulks and obvious silent demands
for an apology, Rhett went to New Orleans, taking Wade with him,
over Mammy's protests, and he stayed away until Scarlett's tantrum
had passed. But the sting of not humbling him remained with her.

When he came back from New Orleans, cool and bland, she swallowed
her anger as best she could, pushing it into the back of her mind
to be thought of at some later date. She did not want to bother
with anything unpleasant now. She wanted to be happy for her mind
was full of the first party she would give in the new house. It
would be an enormous night reception with palms and an orchestra
and all the porches shrouded in canvas, and a collation that made
her mouth water in anticipation. To it she intended to invite
everyone she had ever known in Atlanta, all the old friends and all
the new and charming ones she had met since returning from her
honeymoon. The excitement of the party banished, for the most
part, the memory of Rhett's barbs and she was happy, happier than
she had been in years as she planned her reception.

Oh, what fun it was to be rich! To give parties and never count
the cost! To buy the most expensive furniture and dresses and food
and never think about the bills! How marvelous to be able to send
tidy checks to Aunt Pauline and Aunt Eulalie in Charleston, and to
Will at Tara! Oh, the jealous fools who said money wasn't
everything! How perverse of Rhett to say that it had done nothing
for her!



Scarlett issued cards of invitation to all her friends and
acquaintances, old and new, even those she did not like. She did
not except even Mrs. Merriwether who had been almost rude when she
called on her at the National Hotel or Mrs. Elsing who had been
cool to frigidness. She invited Mrs. Meade and Mrs. Whiting who
she knew disliked her and who she knew would be embarrassed because
they did not have the proper clothes to wear to so elegant a
function. For Scarlett's housewarming, or "crush," as it was
fashionable to call such evening parties, half-reception, half-
ball, was by far the most elaborate affair Atlanta had ever seen.

That night the house and canvas-covered veranda were filled with
guests who drank her champagne punch and ate her patties and
creamed oysters and danced to the music of the orchestra that was
carefully screened by a wall of palms and rubber plants. But none
of those whom Rhett had termed the "Old Guard" were present except
Melanie and Ashley, Aunt Pitty and Uncle Henry, Dr. and Mrs. Meade
and Grandpa Merriwether.

Many of the Old Guard had reluctantly decided to attend the
"crush." Some had accepted because of Melanie's attitude, others
because they felt they owed Rhett a debt for saving their lives and
those of their relatives. But, two days before the function, a
rumor went about Atlanta that Governor Bullock had been invited.
The Old Guard signified their disapproval by a sheaf of cards,
regretting their inability to accept Scarlett's kind invitation.
And the small group of old friends who did attend took their
departure, embarrassed but firm, as soon as the governor entered
Scarlett's house.

Scarlett was so bewildered and infuriated at these slights that the
party was utterly ruined for her. Her elegant "crush"! She had
planned it so lovingly and so few old friends and no old enemies
had been there to see how wonderful it was! After the last guest
had gone home at dawn, she would have cried and stormed had she not
been afraid that Rhett would roar with laughter, afraid that she
would read "I told you so" in his dancing black eyes, even if he
did not speak the words. So she swallowed her wrath with poor
grace and pretended indifference.

Only to Melanie, the next morning, did she permit herself the
luxury of exploding.

"You insulted me, Melly Wilkes, and you made Ashley and the others
insult me! You know they'd have never gone home so soon if you
hadn't dragged them. Oh, I saw you! Just when I started to bring
Governor Bullock over to present him to you, you ran like a
rabbit!"

"I did not believe--I could not believe that he would really be
present," answered Melanie unhappily. "Even though everybody said--"

"Everybody? So everybody's been clacking and blabbing about me,
have they?" cried Scarlett furiously. "Do you mean to tell me if
you'd known the governor was going to be present, you wouldn't have
come either?"

"No," said Melanie in a low voice, her eyes on the floor. "Darling,
I just wouldn't have come."

"Great balls of fire! So you'd have insulted me like everybody
else did!"

"Oh, mercy!" cried Melly, in real distress. "I didn't mean to hurt
you. You're my own sister, darling, my own Charlie's widow and I--"

She put a timid hand on Scarlett's arm. But Scarlett flung it off,
wishing fervently that she could roar as loudly as Gerald used to
roar when in a temper. But Melanie faced her wrath. And as she
looked into Scarlett's stormy green eyes, her slight shoulders
straightened and a mantle of dignity, strangely at variance with
her childish face and figure, fell upon her.

"I'm sorry you're hurt, my dear, but I cannot meet Governor Bullock
or any Republican or any Scallawag. I will not meet them, in your
house or any other house. No, not even if I have to--if I have to--"
Melanie cast about her for the worst thing she could think of--
"Not even if I have to be rude."

"Are you criticizing my friends?"

"No, dear. But they are your friends and not mine."

"Are you criticizing me for having the governor at my house?"

Cornered, Melanie still met Scarlett's eyes unwaveringly.

"Darling, what you do, you always do for a good reason and I love
you and trust you and it is not for me to criticize. And I will
not permit anyone to criticize you in my hearing. But, oh,
Scarlett!" Suddenly words began to bubble out, swift hot words and
there was inflexible hate in the low voice. "Can you forget what
these people did to us? Can you forget darling Charlie dead and
Ashley's health ruined and Twelve Oaks burned? Oh, Scarlett, you
can't forget that terrible man you shot with your mother's sewing
box in his hands! You can't forget Sherman's men at Tara and how
they even stole our underwear! And tried to burn the place down
and actually handled my father's sword! Oh, Scarlett, it was these
same people who robbed us and tortured us and left us to starve
that you invited to your party! The same people who have set the
darkies up to lord it over us, who are robbing us and keeping our
men from voting! I can't forget. I won't forget. I won't let my
Beau forget and I'll teach my grandchildren to hate these people--
and my grandchildren's grandchildren if God lets me live that long!
Scarlett, how can you forget?"

Melanie paused for breath and Scarlett stared at her, startled out
of her own anger by the quivering note of violence in Melanie's
voice.

"Do you think I'm a fool?" she questioned impatiently. "Of course,
I remember! But all that's past, Melly. It's up to us to make the
best of things and I'm trying to do it. Governor Bullock and some
of the nicer Republicans can help us a lot if we handle them
right."

"There are no nice Republicans," said Melanie flatly. "And I don't
want their help. And I don't intend to make the best of things--if
they are Yankee things."

"Good Heaven, Melly, why get in such a pet?"

"Oh!" cried Melanie, looking conscience stricken. "How I have run
on! Scarlett, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings or to criticize.
Everybody thinks differently and everybody's got a right to their
own opinion. Now, dear, I love you and you know I love you and
nothing you could ever do would make me change. And you still love
me, don't you? I haven't made you hate me, have I? Scarlett, I
couldn't stand it if anything ever came between us--after all we've
been through together! Say it's all right."

"Fiddle-dee-dee, Melly, what a tempest you make in a teapot," said
Scarlett grudgingly, but she did not throw off the hand that stole
around her waist.

"Now, we're all right again," said Melanie pleasedly but she added
softly, "I want us to visit each other just like we always did,
darling. Just you let me know what days Republicans and Scallawags
are coming to see you and I'll stay at home on those days."

"It's a matter of supreme indifference to me whether you come or
not," said Scarlett, putting on her bonnet and going home in a
huff. There was some satisfaction to her wounded vanity in the
hurt look on Melanie's face.



In the weeks that followed her first party, Scarlett was hard put
to keep up her pretense of supreme indifference to public opinion.
When she did not receive calls from old friends, except Melanie and
Pitty and Uncle Henry and Ashley, and did not get cards to their
modest entertainments, she was genuinely puzzled and hurt. Had she
not gone out of her way to bury old hatchets and show these people
that she bore them no ill will for their gossiping and backbiting?
Surely they must know that she didn't like Governor Bullock any
more than they did but that it was expedient to be nice to him.
The idiots! If everybody would be nice to the Republicans, Georgia
would get out of the fix she was in very quickly.

She did not realize then that with one stroke she had cut forever
any fragile tie that still bound her to the old days, to old
friends. Not even Melanie's influence could repair the break of
that gossamer thread. And Melanie, bewildered, broken hearted but
still loyal, did not try to repair it. Even had Scarlett wanted to
turn back to old ways, old friends, there was no turning back
possible now. The face of the town was set against her as stonily
as granite. The hate that enveloped the Bullock regime enveloped
her too, a hate that had little fire and fury in it but much cold
implacability. Scarlett had cast her lot with the enemy and,
whatever her birth and family connections, she was now in the
category of a turncoat, a nigger lover, a traitor, a Republican--
and a Scallawag.

After a miserable while, Scarlett's pretended indifference gave way
to the real thing. She had never been one to worry long over the
vagaries of human conduct or to be cast down for long if one line
of action failed. Soon she did not care what the Merriwethers, the
Elsings, the Whitings, the Bonnells, the Meades and others thought
of her. At least, Melanie called, bringing Ashley, and Ashley was
the one who mattered the most. And there were other people in
Atlanta who would come to her parties, other people far more
congenial than those hide-bound old hens. Any time she wanted to
fill her house with guests, she could do so and these guests would
be far more entertaining, far more handsomely dressed than those
prissy, strait-laced old fools who disapproved of her.

These people were newcomers to Atlanta. Some of them were
acquaintances of Rhett, some associated with him in those
mysterious affairs which he referred to as "mere business, my pet."
Some were couples Scarlett had met when she was living at the
National Hotel and some were Governor Bullock's appointees.

The set with which she was now moving was a motley crew. Among
them were the Gelerts who had lived in a dozen different states and
who apparently had left each one hastily upon detection of their
swindling schemes; the Conningtons whose connection with the
Freedmen's Bureau in a distant state had been highly lucrative at
the expense of the ignorant blacks they were supposed to protect;
the Deals who had sold "cardboard" shoes to the Confederate
government until it became necessary for them to spend the last
year of the war in Europe; the Hundons who had police records in
many cities but nevertheless were often successful bidders on state
contracts; the Carahans who had gotten their start in a gambling
house and now were gambling for bigger stakes in the building of
nonexistent railroads with the state's money; the Flahertys who had
bought salt at one cent a pound in 1861 and made a fortune when
salt went to fifty cents in 1863, and the Barts who had owned the
largest brothel in a Northern metropolis during the war and now
were moving in the best circles of Carpetbagger society.

Such people were Scarlett's intimates now, but those who attended
her larger receptions included others of some culture and
refinement, many of excellent families. In addition to the
Carpetbag gentry, substantial people from the North were moving
into Atlanta, attracted by the never ceasing business activity of
the town in this period of rebuilding and expansion. Yankee
families of wealth sent young sons to the South to pioneer on the
new frontier, and Yankee officers after their discharge took up
permanent residence in the town they had fought so hard to capture.
At first, strangers in a strange town, they were glad to accept
invitations to the lavish entertainments of the wealthy and
hospitable Mrs. Butler, but they soon drifted out of her set. They
were good people and they needed only a short acquaintance with
Carpetbaggers and Carpetbag rule to become as resentful of them as
the native Georgians were. Many became Democrats and more Southern
than the Southerners.

Other misfits in Scarlett's circle remained there only because they
were not welcome elsewhere. They would have much preferred the
quiet parlors of the Old Guard, but the Old Guard would have none
of them. Among these were the Yankee schoolmarms who had come
South imbued with the desire to uplift the Negro and the Scallawags
who had been born good Democrats but had turned Republican after
the surrender.

It was hard to say which class was more cordially hated by the
settled citizenry, the impractical Yankee schoolmarms or the
Scallawags, but the balance probably fell with the latter. The
schoolmarms could be dismissed with, "Well, what can you expect of
nigger-loving Yankees? Of course they think the nigger is just as
good as they are!" But for those Georgians who had turned
Republican for personal gain, there was no excuse.

"Starving is good enough for us. It ought to be good enough for
you," was the way the Old Guard felt. Many ex-Confederate
soldiers, knowing the frantic fear of men who saw their families in
want, were more tolerant of former comrades who had changed
political colors in order that their families might eat. But not
the women of the Old Guard, and the women were the implacable and
inflexible power behind the social throne. The Lost Cause was
stronger, dearer now in their hearts than it had ever been at the
height of its glory. It was a fetish now. Everything about it was
sacred, the graves of the men who had died for it, the battle
fields, the torn flags, the crossed sabres in their halls, the
fading letters from the front, the veterans. These women gave no
aid, comfort or quarter to the late enemy, and now Scarlett was
numbered among the enemy.

In this mongrel society thrown together by the exigencies of the
political situation, there was but one thing in common. That was
money. As most of them had never had twenty-five dollars at one
time in their whole lives, previous to the war, they were now
embarked on an orgy of spending such as Atlanta had never seen
before.

With the Republicans in the political saddle the town entered into
an era of waste and ostentation, with the trappings of refinement
thinly veneering the vice and vulgarity beneath. Never before had
the cleavage of the very rich and the very poor been so marked.
Those on top took no thought for those less fortunate. Except for
the negroes, of course. They must have the very best. The best of
schools and lodgings and clothes and amusements, for they were the
power in politics and every negro vote counted. But as for the
recently impoverished Atlanta people, they could starve and drop in
the streets for all the newly rich Republicans cared.

On the crest of this wave of vulgarity, Scarlett rode triumphantly,
newly a bride, dashingly pretty in her fine clothes, with Rhett's
money solidly behind her. It was an era that suited her, crude,
garish, showy, full of over-dressed women, over-furnished houses,
too many jewels, too many horses, too much food, too much whisky.
When Scarlett infrequently stopped to think about the matter she
knew that none of her new associates could be called ladies by
Ellen's strict standards. But she had broken with Ellen's
standards too many times since that far-away day when she stood in
the parlor at Tara and decided to be Rhett's mistress, and she did
not often feel the bite of conscience now.

Perhaps these new friends were not, strictly speaking, ladies and
gentlemen but like Rhett's New Orleans friends, they were so much
fun! So very much more fun than the subdued, churchgoing,
Shakespeare-reading friends of her earlier Atlanta days. And,
except for her brief honeymoon interlude, she had not had fun in so
long. Nor had she had any sense of security. Now secure, she
wanted to dance, to play, to riot, to gorge on foods and fine wine,
to deck herself in silks and satins, to wallow on soft feather beds
and fine upholstery. And she did all these things. Encouraged by
Rhett's amused tolerance, freed now from the restraints of her
childhood, freed even from that last fear of poverty, she was
permitting herself the luxury she had often dreamed--of doing
exactly what she pleased and telling people who didn't like it to
go to hell.

To her had come that pleasant intoxication peculiar to those whose
lives are a deliberate slap in the face of organized society--the
gambler, the confidence man, the polite adventuress, all those who
succeed by their wits. She said and did exactly what she pleased
and, in practically no time, her insolence knew no bounds.

She did not hesitate to display arrogance to her new Republican and
Scallawag friends but to no class was she ruder or more insolent
than the Yankee officers of the garrison and their families. Of
all the heterogeneous mass of people who had poured into Atlanta,
the army people alone she refused to receive or tolerate. She even
went out of her way to be bad mannered to them. Melanie was not
alone in being unable to forget what a blue uniform meant. To
Scarlett, that uniform and those gold buttons would always mean the
fears of the siege, the terror of flight, the looting and burning,
the desperate poverty and the grinding work at Tara. Now that she
was rich and secure in the friendship of the governor and many
prominent Republicans, she could be insulting to every blue uniform
she saw. And she was insulting.

Rhett once lazily pointed out to her that most of the male guests
who assembled under their roof had worn that same blue uniform not
so long ago, but she retorted that a Yankee didn't seem like a
Yankee unless he had on a blue uniform. To which Rhett replied:
"Consistency, thou art a jewel," and shrugged.

Scarlett, hating the bright hard blue they wore, enjoyed snubbing
them all the more because it so bewildered them. The garrison
families had a right to be bewildered for most of them were quiet,
well-bred folk, lonely in a hostile land, anxious to go home to the
North, a little ashamed of the riffraff whose rule they were forced
to uphold--an infinitely better class than that of Scarlett's
associates. Naturally, the officers' wives were puzzled that the
dashing Mrs. Butler took to her bosom such women as the common red-
haired Bridget Flaherty and went out of her way to slight them.

But even the ladies whom Scarlett took to her bosom had to endure
much from her. However, they did it gladly. To them, she not only
represented wealth and elegance but the old regime, with its old
names, old families, old traditions with which they wished ardently
to identify themselves. The old families they yearned after might
have cast Scarlett out but the ladies of the new aristocracy did
not know it. They only knew that Scarlett's father had been a
great slave owner, her mother a Robillard of Savannah and her
husband was Rhett Butler of Charleston. And this was enough for
them. She was their opening wedge into the old society they wished
to enter, the society which scorned them, would not return calls
and bowed frigidly in churches. In fact, she was more than their
wedge into society. To them, fresh from obscure beginnings, she
WAS society. Pinchbeck ladies themselves, they no more saw through
Scarlett's pinchbeck pretensions than she herself did. They took
her at her own valuation and endured much at her hands, her airs,
her graces, her tempers, her arrogance, her downright rudeness and
her frankness about their shortcomings.

They were so lately come from nothing and so uncertain of themselves
they were doubly anxious to appear refined and feared to show their
temper or make retorts in kind, lest they be considered unladylike.
At all costs they must be ladies. They pretended to great delicacy,
modesty and innocence. To hear them talk one would have thought
they had no legs, natural functions or knowledge of the wicked
world. No one would have thought that red-haired Bridget Flaherty,
who had a sun-defying white skin and a brogue that could be cut with
a butter knife, had stolen her father's hidden hoard to come to
America to be chambermaid in a New York hotel. And to observe the
delicate vapors of Sylvia (formerly Sadie Belle) Connington and
Mamie Bart, no one would have suspected that the first grew up above
her father's saloon in the Bowery and waited on the bar at rush
times, and that the latter, so it was said, had come out of one of
her husband's own brothels. No, they were delicate sheltered
creatures now.

The men, though they had made money, learned new ways less easily
or were, perhaps, less patient with the demands of the new
gentility. They drank heavily at Scarlett's parties, far too
heavily, and usually after a reception there were one or more
unexpected guests who stayed the night. They did not drink like
the men of Scarlett's girlhood. They became sodden, stupid, ugly
or obscene. Moreover, no matter how many spittoons she might put
out in view, the rugs always showed signs of tobacco juice on the
mornings after.

She had a contempt for these people but she enjoyed them. Because
she enjoyed them, she filled the house with them. And because of
her contempt, she told them to go to hell as often as they annoyed
her. But they stood it.

They even stood Rhett, a more difficult matter, for Rhett saw
through them and they knew it. He had no hesitation about
stripping them verbally, even under his own roof, always in a
manner that left them no reply. Unashamed of how he came by his
fortune, he pretended that they, too, were unashamed of their
beginnings and he seldom missed an opportunity to remark upon
matters which, by common consent, everyone felt were better left in
polite obscurity.

There was never any knowing when he would remark affably, over a
punch cup: "Ralph, if I'd had any sense I'd have made my money
selling gold-mine stocks to widows and orphans, like you, instead
of blockading. It's so much safer." "Well, Bill, I see you have a
new span of horses. Been selling a few thousand more bonds for
nonexistent railroads? Good work, boy!" "Congratulations, Amos,
on landing that state contract. Too bad you had to grease so many
palms to get it."

The ladies felt that he was odiously, unendurably vulgar. The men
said, behind his back, that he was a swine and a bastard. New
Atlanta liked Rhett no better than old Atlanta had done and he made
as little attempt to conciliate the one as he had the other. He
went his way, amused, contemptuous, impervious to the opinions of
those about him, so courteous that his courtesy was an affront in
itself. To Scarlett, he was still an enigma but an enigma about
which she no longer bothered her head. She was convinced that
nothing ever pleased him or ever would please him, that he either
wanted something badly and didn't have it, or never had wanted
anything and so didn't care about anything. He laughed at
everything she did, encouraged her extravagances and insolences,
jeered at her pretenses--and paid the bills.



CHAPTER L


Rhett never deviated from his smooth, imperturbable manners, even
in their most intimate moments. But Scarlett never lost the old
feeling that he was watching her covertly, knew that if she turned
her head suddenly she would surprise in his eyes that speculative,
waiting look, that look of almost terrible patience that she did
not understand.

Sometimes, he was a very comfortable person to live with, for all
his unfortunate habit of not permitting anyone in his presence to
act a lie, palm off a pretense or indulge in bombast. He listened
to her talk of the store and the mills and the saloon, the convicts
and the cost of feeding them, and gave shrewd hard-headed advice.
He had untiring energy for the dancing and parties she loved and an
unending supply of coarse stories with which he regaled her on
their infrequent evenings alone when the table was cleared and
brandy and coffee before them. She found that he would give her
anything she desired, answer any question she asked as long as she
was forthright, and refuse her anything she attempted to gain by
indirection, hints and feminine angling. He had a disconcerting
habit of seeing through her and laughing rudely.

Contemplating the suave indifference with which he generally
treated her, Scarlett frequently wondered, but with no real
curiosity, why he had married her. Men married for love or a home
and children or money but she knew he had married her for none of
these things. He certainly did not love her. He referred to her
lovely house as an architectural horror and said he would rather
live in a well-regulated hotel than a home. And he never once
hinted about children as Charles and Frank had done. Once when
trying to coquet with him she asked why he married her and was
infuriated when he replied with an amused gleam in his eyes: "I
married you to keep you for a pet, my dear."

No, he hadn't married her for any of the usual reasons men marry
women. He had married her solely because he wanted her and
couldn't get her any other way. He had admitted as much the night
he proposed to her. He had wanted her, just as he had wanted Belle
Watling. This was not a pleasant thought. In fact, it was a
barefaced insult. But she shrugged it off as she had learned to
shrug off all unpleasant facts. They had made a bargain and she
was quite pleased with her side of the bargain. She hoped he was
equally pleased but she did not care very much whether he was or
not.

But one afternoon when she was consulting Dr. Meade about a
digestive upset, she learned an unpleasant fact which she could not
shrug off. It was with real hate in her eyes that she stormed into
her bedroom at twilight and told Rhett that she was going to have a
baby.

He was lounging in a silk dressing gown in a cloud of smoke and his
eyes went sharply to her face as she spoke. But he said nothing.
He watched her in silence but there was a tenseness about his pose,
as he waited for her next words, that was lost on her. Indignation
and despair had claimed her to the exclusion of all other thoughts.

"You know I don't want any more children! I never wanted any at
all. Every time things are going right with me I have to have a
baby. Oh, don't sit there and laugh! You don't want it either.
Oh, Mother of God!"

If he was waiting for words from her, these were not the words he
wanted. His face hardened slightly and his eyes became blank.

"Well, why not give it to Miss Melly? Didn't you tell me she was
so misguided as to want another baby?"

"Oh, I could kill you! I won't have it, I tell you, I won't!"

"No? Pray continue."

"Oh, there are things to do. I'm not the stupid country fool I
used to be. Now, I know that a woman doesn't have to have children
if she doesn't want them! There are things--"

He was on his feet and had her by the wrist and there was a hard,
driving fear in his face.

"Scarlett, you fool, tell me the truth! You haven't done anything?"

"No, I haven't, but I'm going to. Do you think I'm going to have
my figure ruined all over again, just when I've gotten my waist
line down and am having a good time."

"Where did you get this idea? Who's been telling you things?"

"Mamie Bart--she--"

"The madam of a whore house would know such tricks. That woman
never puts foot in this house again, do you understand? After all,
it is my house and I'm the master of it. I do not even want you to
speak to her again."

"I'll do as I please. Turn me loose. Why should you care?"

"I don't care whether you have one child or twenty, but I do care
if you die."

"Die? Me?"

"Yes, die. I don't suppose Mamie Bart told you the chances a woman
takes when she does a thing like that?"

"No," said Scarlett reluctantly. "She just said it would fix
things up fine."

"By God, I will kill her!" cried Rhett and his face was black with
rage. He looked down into Scarlett's tear-stained face and some of
the wrath faded but it was still hard and set. Suddenly he picked
her up in his arms and sat down in the chair, holding her close to
him, tightly, as if he feared she would get away from him.

"Listen, my baby, I won't have you take your life in your hands.
Do you hear? Good God, I don't want children any more than you do,
but I can support them. I don't want to hear any more foolishness
out of you, and if you dare try to--Scarlett, I saw a girl die that
way once. She was only a--well, but she was a pretty sort at that.
It's not an easy way to die. I--"

"Why, Rhett!" she cried, startled out of her misery at the emotion
in his voice. She had never seen him so moved. "Where--who--"

"In New Orleans--oh, years ago. I was young and impressionable."
He bent his head suddenly and buried his lips in her hair. "You'll
have your baby, Scarlett, if I have to handcuff you to my wrist for
the next nine months."

She sat up in his lap and stared into his face with frank curiosity.
Under her gaze it was suddenly smooth and bland as though wiped
clear by magic. His eyebrows were up and the corner of his mouth
was down.

"Do I mean so much to you?" she questioned, dropping her eyelids.

He gave her a level look as though estimating how much coquetry was
behind the question. Reading the true meaning of her demeanor, he
made casual answer.

"Well, yes. You see, I've invested a good deal of money in you,
and I'd hate to lose it."


* * * * *


Melanie came out of Scarlett's room, weary from the strain but
happy to tears at the birth of Scarlett's daughter. Rhett stood
tensely in the hall, surrounded by cigar butts which had burned
holes in the fine carpet.

"You can go in now, Captain Butler," she said shyly.

Rhett went swiftly past her into the room and Melanie had a brief
glimpse of him bending over the small naked baby in Mammy's lap
before Dr. Meade shut the door. Melanie sank into a chair, her
face pinkening with embarrassment that she had unintentionally
witnessed so intimate a scene.

"Ah!" she thought. "How sweet! How worried poor Captain Butler
has been! And he did not take a single drink all this time! How
nice of him. So many gentlemen are so intoxicated by the time
their babies are born. I fear he needs a drink badly. Dare I
suggest it? No, that would be very forward of me."

She sank gratefully into a chair, her back, which always ached
these days, feeling as though it would break in two at the waist
line. Oh, how fortunate Scarlett was to have Captain Butler just
outside her door while the baby was being born! If only she had
had Ashley with her that dreadful day Beau came she would not have
suffered half so much. If only that small girl behind those closed
doors were hers and not Scarlett's! Oh, how wicked I am, she
thought guiltily. I am coveting her baby and Scarlett has been so
good to me. Forgive me, Lord. I wouldn't really want Scarlett's
baby but--but I would so like a baby of my own!

She pushed a small cushion behind her aching back and thought
hungrily of a daughter of her own. But Dr. Meade had never changed
his opinion on that subject. And though she was quite willing to
risk her life for another child, Ashley would not hear of it. A
daughter. How Ashley would love a daughter!

A daughter! Mercy! She sat up in alarm. I never told Captain
Butler it was a girl! And of course he was expecting a boy. Oh,
how dreadful!

Melanie knew that to a woman a child of either sex was equally
welcome but to a man, and especially such a self-willed man as
Captain Butler, a girl would be a blow, a reflection upon his
manhood. Oh, how thankful she was that God had permitted her only
child to be a boy! She knew that, had she been the wife of the
fearsome Captain Butler, she would have thankfully died in
childbirth rather than present him with a daughter as his first-
born.

But Mammy, waddling grinning from the room, set her mind at ease--
and at the same time made her wonder just what kind of man Captain
Butler really was.

"W'en Ah wuz bathin' dat chile jes' now," said Mammy, "Ah kinder
'pologized ter Mist' Rhett 'bout it not bein' a boy. But, Lawd,
Miss Melly, you know whut he say? He say, 'Hesh yo' mouf, Mammy!
Who want a boy? Boys ain' no fun. Dey's jes' a passel of trouble.
Gals is whut is fun. Ah wouldn' swap disyere gal fer a baker's
dozen of boys.' Den he try ter snatch de chile frum me, buck
nekked as she wuz an' Ah slap his wrist an' say 'B'have yo'seff,
Mist' Rhett! Ah'll jes' bide mah time tell you gits a boy, an' den
Ah'll laff out loud to hear you holler fer joy.' He grin an' shake
his haid an' say, 'Mammy, you is a fool. Boys ain' no use ter
nobody. Ain' Ah a proof of dat?' Yas'm, Miss Melly, he ack lak a
gempmum 'bout it," finished Mammy graciously. It was not lost on
Melanie that Rhett's conduct had gone far toward redeeming him in
Mammy's eyes. "Maybe Ah done been a mite wrong 'bout Mist' Rhett.
Dis sho is a happy day ter me, Miss Melly. Ah done diapered three
ginrations of Robillard gals, an' it sho is a happy day."

"Oh, yes, it is a happy day, Mammy. The happiest days are the days
when babies come!"

To one person in the house it was not a happy day. Scolded and for
the most part ignored, Wade Hampton idled miserably about the
dining room. Early that morning, Mammy had waked him abruptly,
dressed him hurriedly and sent him with Ella to Aunt Pitty's house
for breakfast. The only explanation he received was that his
mother was sick and the noise of his playing might upset her. Aunt
Pitty's house was in an uproar, for the news of Scarlett's sickness
had sent the old lady to bed in a state with Cookie in attendance,
and breakfast was a scant meal that Peter concocted for the
children. As the morning wore on fear began to possess Wade's
soul. Suppose Mother died? Other boys' mothers had died. He had
seen the hearses move away from the house and heard his small
friends sobbing. Suppose Mother should die? Wade loved his mother
very much, almost as much as he feared her, and the thought of her
being carried away in a black hearse behind black horses with
plumes on their bridles made his small chest ache so that he could
hardly breathe.

When noon came and Peter was busy in the kitchen, Wade slipped out
the front door and hurried home as fast as his short legs could
carry him, fear speeding him. Uncle Rhett or Aunt Melly or Mammy
surely would tell him the truth. But Uncle Rhett and Aunt Melly
were not to be seen and Mammy and Dilcey sped up and down the back
stairs with towels and basins of hot water and did not once notice
him in the front hall. From upstairs he could hear occasionally
the curt tones of Dr. Meade whenever a door opened. Once he heard
his mother groan and he burst into sobbing hiccoughs. He knew she
was going to die. For comfort, he made overtures to the honey-
colored cat which lay on the sunny window sill in the front hall.
But Tom, full of years and irritable at disturbances, switched his
tail and spat softly.

Finally, Mammy, coming down the front stairs, her apron rumpled and
spotted, her head rag awry, saw him and scowled. Mammy had always
been Wade's mainstay and her frown made him tremble.

"You is de wustes' boy Ah ever seed," she said. "Ain' Ah done sont
you ter Miss Pitty's? Gwan back dar!"

"Is Mother going to--will she die?"

"You is de troublesomes' chile Ah ever seed! Die? Gawdlmighty,
no! Lawd, boys is a tawment. Ah doan see why de Lawd sen's boys
ter folks. Now, gwan way from here."

But Wade did not go. He retreated behind the portieres in the
hall, only half convinced by her words. The remark about the
troublesomeness of boys stung, for he had always tried his best to
be good. Aunt Melly hurried down the stairs half an hour later,
pale and tired but smiling to herself. She looked thunderstruck
when she saw his woebegone face in the shadows of the drapery.
Usually Aunt Melly had all the time in the world to give him. She
never said, as Mother so often did: "Don't bother me now. I'm in
a hurry" or "Run away, Wade. I am busy."

But this morning she said: "Wade, you've been very naughty. Why
didn't you stay at Aunt Pitty's?"

"Is Mother going to die?"

"Gracious, no, Wade! Don't be a silly child," and then, relenting:
"Dr. Meade has just brought her a nice little baby, a sweet little
sister for you to play with, and if you are real good you can see
her tonight. Now, run out and play and don't make any noise."

Wade slipped into the quiet dining room, his small and insecure
world tottering. Was there no place for a worried little seven-
year-old boy on this sunshiny day when the grown-ups acted so
curiously? He sat down on the window still in the alcove and
nibbled a bit of the elephant's ear which grew in a box in the sun.
It was so peppery that it stung his eyes to tears and he began to
cry. Mother was probably dying, nobody paid him any heed and one
and all, they rushed about because of a new baby--a girl baby.
Wade had little interest in babies, still less in girls. The only
little girl he knew intimately was Ella and, so far, she had done
nothing to command his respect or liking.

After a long interval Dr. Meade and Uncle Rhett came down the
stairs and stood talking in the hall in low voices. After the door
shut behind the doctor, Uncle Rhett came swiftly into the dining
room and poured himself a large drink from the decanter before he
saw Wade. Wade shrank back, expecting to be told again that he was
naughty and must return to Aunt Pitty's, but instead, Uncle Rhett
smiled. Wade had never seen him smile like that or look so happy
and, encouraged, he leaped from the sill and ran to him.

"You've got a sister," said Rhett, squeezing him. "By God, the
most beautiful baby you ever saw! Now, why are you crying?"

"Mother--"

"Your mother's eating a great big dinner, chicken and rice and
gravy and coffee, and we're going to make her some ice cream in a
little while and you can have two plates if you want them. And
I'll show you your sister too."

Weak with relief, Wade tried to be polite about his new sister but
failed. Everyone was interested in this girl. No one cared
anything about him any more, not even Aunt Melly or Uncle Rhett.

"Uncle Rhett," he began, "do people like girls better than boys?"

Rhett set down his glass and looked sharply into the small face and
instant comprehension came into his eyes.

"No, I can't say they do," he answered seriously, as though giving
the matter due thought. "It's just that girls are more trouble
than boys and people are apt to worry more about troublesome people
than those who aren't."

"Mammy just said boys were troublesome."

"Well, Mammy was upset. She didn't mean it."

"Uncle Rhett, wouldn't you rather have had a little boy than a
little girl?" questioned Wade hopefully.

"No," answered Rhett swiftly and, seeing the boy's face fall, he
continued: "Now, why should I want a boy when I've already got
one?"

"You have?" cried Wade, his mouth falling open at this information.
"Where is he?"

"Right here," answered Rhett and, picking the child up, drew him to
his knee. "You are boy enough for me, son."

For a moment, the security and happiness of being wanted was so
great that Wade almost cried again. His throat worked and he
ducked his head against Rhett's waistcoat.

"You are my boy, aren't you?"

"Can you be--well, two men's boy?" questioned Wade, loyalty to the
father he had never known struggling with love for the man who held
him so understandingly.

"Yes," said Rhett firmly. "Just like you can be your mother's boy
and Aunt Melly's, too."

Wade digested this statement. It made sense to him and he smiled
and wriggled against Rhett's arm shyly.

"You understand little boys, don't you, Uncle Rhett?"

Rhett's dark face fell into its old harsh lines and his lip
twisted.

"Yes," he said bitterly, "I understand little boys."

For a moment, fear came back to Wade, fear and a sudden sense of
jealousy. Uncle Rhett was not thinking of him but of some one
else.

"You haven't got any other little boys have you?"

Rhett set him on his feet.

"I'm going to have a drink and so are you, Wade, your first drink,
a toast to your new sister."

"You haven't got any other--" began Wade and then seeing Rhett
reach for the decanter of claret, the excitement at being included
in this grown-up ceremony diverted him.

"Oh, I can't, Uncle Rhett! I promised Aunt Melly I wouldn't drink
till I graduated from the university and she's going to give me a
watch, if I don't."

"And I'll give you a chain for it--this one I'm wearing now, if you
want it," said Rhett and he was smiling again. "Aunt Melly's quite
right. But she was talking about spirits, not wine. You must
learn to drink wine like a gentleman, son, and there's no time like
the present to learn."

Skillfully, he diluted the claret with water from the carafe until
the liquid was barely pink and handed the glass to Wade. At that
moment, Mammy entered the dining room. She had changed to her best
Sunday black and her apron and head rag were fresh and crisp. As
she waddled, she switched herself and from her skirts came the
whisper and rustle of silk. The worried look had gone from her
face and her almost toothless gums showed in a wide smile.

"Burfday gif', Mist' Rhett!" she said.

Wade stopped with his glass at his lips. He knew Mammy had never
liked his stepfather. He had never heard her call him anything
except "Cap'n Butler," and her conduct toward him had been
dignified but cold. And here she was beaming and sidling and
calling him "Mist' Rhett!" What a topsy-turvy day!

"You'd rather have rum than claret, I suppose," said Rhett, reaching
into the cellaret and producing a squat bottle. "She is a beautiful
baby, isn't she, Mammy?"

"She sho is," answered Mammy, smacking her lips as she took the
glass.

"Did you ever see a prettier one?"

"Well, suh, Miss Scarlett wuz mout nigh as pretty w'en she come but
not quite."

"Have another glass, Mammy. And Mammy," his tone was stern but his
eyes twinkled, "what's that rustling noise I hear?"

"Lawd, Mist' Rhett, dat ain' nuthin' but mah red silk petticoat!"
Mammy giggled and switched till her huge bulk shook.

"Nothing but your petticoat! I don't believe it. You sound like a
peck of dried leaves rubbing together. Let me see. Pull up your
skirt."

"Mist' Rhett, you is bad! Yeah-O, Lawd!"

Mammy gave a little shriek and retreated and from a distance of a
yard, modestly elevated her dress a few inches and showed the
ruffle of a red taffeta petticoat.

"You took long enough about wearing it," grumbled Rhett but his
black eyes laughed and danced.

"Yassuh, too long."

Then Rhett said something that Wade did not understand.

"No more mule in horse harness?"

"Mist' Rhett, Miss Scarlett wuz bad ter tell you dat! You ain'
holin' dat again' dis ole nigger?"

"No. I'm not holding it. I just wanted to know. Have another
drink, Mammy. Have the whole bottle. Drink up, Wade! Give us a
toast."

"To Sissy," cried Wade and gulped the liquid down. Choking he
began to cough and hiccough and the other two laughed and beat him
on the back.



From the moment his daughter was born, Rhett's conduct was puzzling
to all observers and he upset many settled notions about himself,
notions which both the town and Scarlett were loath to surrender.
Whoever would have thought that he of all people would be so
shamelessly, so openly proud of fatherhood? Especially in view of
the embarrassing circumstance that his first-born was a girl and
not a boy.

The novelty of fatherhood did not wear off. This caused some
secret envy among women whose husbands took offspring for granted,
long before the children were christened. He buttonholed people on
the street and related details of his child's miraculous progress
without even prefacing his remarks with the hypocritical but
polite: "I know everyone thinks their own child is smart but--"
He thought his daughter marvelous, not to be compared with lesser
brats, and he did not care who knew it. When the new nurse
permitted the baby to suck a bit of fat pork, thereby bringing on
the first attack of colic, Rhett's conduct sent seasoned fathers
and mothers into gales of laughter. He hurriedly summoned Dr.
Meade and two other doctors, and with difficulty he was restrained
from beating the unfortunate nurse with his crop. The nurse was
discharged and thereafter followed a series of nurses who remained,
at the most, a week. None of them was good enough to satisfy the
exacting requirements Rhett laid down.

Mammy likewise viewed with displeasure the nurses that came and
went, for she was jealous of any strange negro and saw no reason
why she could not care for the baby and Wade and Ella, too. But
Mammy was showing her age and rheumatism was slowing her lumbering
tread. Rhett lacked the courage to cite these reasons for
employing another nurse. He told her instead that a man of his
position could not afford to have only one nurse. It did not look
well. He would hire two others to do the drudgery and leave her as
Mammy-in-chief. This Mammy understood very well. More servants
were a credit to her position as well as Rhett's. But she would
not, she told him firmly, have any trashy free issue niggers in
her nursery. So Rhett sent to Tara for Prissy. He knew her
shortcomings but, after all, she was a family darky. And Uncle
Peter produced a great-niece named Lou who had belonged to one of
Miss Pitty's Burr cousins.

Even before Scarlett was able to be about again, she noticed
Rhett's pre-occupation with the baby and was somewhat nettled and
embarrassed at his pride in her in front of callers. It was all
very well for a man to love his child but she felt there was
something unmanly in the display of such love. He should be
offhand and careless, as other men were.

"You are making a fool of yourself," she said irritably, "and I
don't see why."

"No? Well, you wouldn't. The reason is that she's the first
person who's ever belonged utterly to me."

"She belongs to me, too!"

"No, you have two other children. She's mine."

"Great balls of fire!" said Scarlett. "I had the baby, didn't I?
Besides, honey, I belong to you."

Rhett looked at her over the black head of the child and smiled
oddly.

"Do you, my dear?"

Only the entrance of Melanie stopped one of those swift hot
quarrels which seemed to spring up so easily between them these
days. Scarlett swallowed her wrath and watched Melanie take the
baby. The name agreed upon for the child was Eugenie Victoria, but
that afternoon Melanie unwittingly bestowed a name that clung, even
as "Pittypat" had blotted out all memory of Sarah Jane.

Rhett leaning over the child had said: "Her eyes are going to be
pea green."

"Indeed they are not," cried Melanie indignantly, forgetting that
Scarlett's eyes were almost that shade. "They are going to be
blue, like Mr. O'Hara's eyes, as blue as--as blue as the bonnie
blue flag."

"Bonnie Blue Butler," laughed Rhett, taking the child from her and
peering more closely into the small eyes. And Bonnie she became
until even her parents did not recall that she had been named for
two queens.



CHAPTER LI


When she was finally able to go out again, Scarlett had Lou lace
her into stays as tightly as the strings would pull. Then she
passed the tape measure about her waist. Twenty inches! She
groaned aloud. That was what having babies did to your figure!
Her waist was a large as Aunt Pitty's, as large as Mammy's.

"Pull them tighter, Lou. See if you can't make it eighteen and a
half inches or I can't get into any of my dresses."

"It'll bust de strings," said Lou. "Yo' wais' jes' done got
bigger, Miss Scarlett, an' dar ain' nuthin' ter do 'bout it."

"There is something to do about it," thought Scarlett as she ripped
savagely at the seams of her dress to let out the necessary inches.
"I just won't have any more babies."

Of course, Bonnie was pretty and a credit to her and Rhett adored
the child, but she would not have another baby. Just how she would
manage this she did not know, for she couldn't handle Rhett as she
had Frank. Rhett wasn't afraid of her. It would probably be
difficult with Rhett acting so foolishly about Bonnie and probably
wanting a son next year, for all that he said he'd drown any boy
she gave him. Well, she wouldn't give him a boy or girl either.
Three children were enough for any woman to have.

When Lou had stitched up the ripped seams, pressed them smooth and
buttoned Scarlett into the dress, she called the carriage and
Scarlett set out for the lumber yard. Her spirits rose as she went
and she forgot about her waist line, for she was going to meet
Ashley at the yard to go over the books with him. And, if she was
lucky, she might see him alone. She hadn't seen him since long
before Bonnie was born. She hadn't wanted to see him at all when
she was so obviously pregnant. And she had missed the daily
contact with him, even if there was always someone around. She had
missed the importance and activity of her lumber business while she
was immured. Of course, she did not have to work now. She could
easily sell the mills and invest the money for Wade and Ella. But
that would mean she would hardly ever see Ashley, except in a
formal social way with crowds of people around. And working by
Ashley's side was her greatest pleasure.

When she drove up to the yard she saw with interest how high the
piles of lumber were and how many customers were standing among
them, talking to Hugh Elsing. And there were six mule teams and
wagons being loaded by the negro drivers. Six teams, she thought,
with pride. And I did all this by myself!

Ashley came to the door of the little office, his eyes joyful with
the pleasure of seeing her again and he handed her out of her
carriage and into the office as if she were a queen.

But some of her pleasure was dimmed when she went over the books of
his mill and compared them with Johnnie Gallegher's books. Ashley
had barely made expenses and Johnnie had a remarkable sum to his
credit. She forbore to say anything as she looked at the two
sheets but Ashley read her face.

"Scarlett, I'm sorry. All I can say is that I wish you'd let me
hire free darkies instead of using convicts. I believe I could do
better."

"Darkies! Why, their pay would break us. Convicts are dirt cheap.
If Johnnie can make this much with them--"

Ashley's eyes went over her shoulder, looking at something she
could not see, and the glad light went out of his eyes.

"I can't work convicts like Johnnie Gallegher. I can't drive men."

"God's nightgown! Johnnie's a wonder at it. Ashley, you are just
too soft hearted. You ought to get more work out of them. Johnnie
told me that any time a malingerer wanted to get out of work he
told you he was sick and you gave him a day off. Good Lord,
Ashley! That's no way to make money. A couple of licks will cure
most any sickness short of a broken leg--"

"Scarlett! Scarlett! Stop! I can't bear to hear you talk that
way," cried Ashley, his eyes coming back to her with a fierceness
that stopped her short. "Don't you realize that they are men--some
of them sick, underfed, miserable and-- Oh, my dear, I can't bear
to see the way he has brutalized you, you who were always so sweet--"

"Who has whatted me?"

"I've got to say it and I haven't any right. But I've got to say
it. Your--Rhett Butler. Everything he touches he poisons. And he
has taken you who were so sweet and generous and gentle, for all
your spirited ways, and he has done this to you--hardened you,
brutalized you by his contact."

"Oh," breathed Scarlett, guilt struggling with joy that Ashley
should feel so deeply about her, should still think her sweet.
Thank God, he thought Rhett to blame for her penny-pinching ways.
Of course, Rhett had nothing to do with it and the guilt was hers
but, after all, another black mark on Rhett could do him no harm.

"If it were any other man in the world, I wouldn't care so much--
but Rhett Butler! I've seen what he's done to you. Without your
realizing it, he's twisted your thoughts into the same hard path
his own run in. Oh, yes, I know I shouldn't say this-- He saved
my life and I am grateful but I wish to God it had been any other
man but him! And I haven't the right to talk to you like--"

"Oh, Ashley, you have the right--no, one else has!"

"I tell you I can't bear it, seeing your fineness coarsened by him,
knowing that your beauty and your charm are in the keeping of a man
who-- When I think of him touching you, I--"

"He's going to kiss me!" thought Scarlett ecstatically. "And it
won't be my fault!" She swayed toward him. But he drew back
suddenly, as if realizing he had said too much--said things he
never intended to say.

"I apologize most humbly, Scarlett. I--I've been insinuating that
your husband is not a gentleman and my own words have proved that
I'm not one. No one has a right to criticize a husband to a wife.
I haven't any excuse except--except--" He faltered and his face
twisted. She waited breathless.

"I haven't any excuse at all."

All the way home in the carriage Scarlett's mind raced. No excuse
at all except--except that he loved her! And the thought of her
lying in Rhett's arms roused a fury in him that she did not think
possible. Well, she could understand that. If it wasn't for the
knowledge that his relations with Melanie were, necessarily, those
of brother and sister, her own life would be a torment. And
Rhett's embraces coarsened her, brutalized her! Well, if Ashley
thought that, she could do very well without those embraces. She
thought how sweet and romantic it would be for them both to be
physically true to each other, even though married to other people.
The idea possessed her imagination and she took pleasure in it.
And then, too, there was the practical side of it. It would mean
that she would not have to have any more children.

When she reached home and dismissed the carriage, some of the
exaltation which had filled her at Ashley's words began to fade as
she faced the prospect of telling Rhett that she wanted separate
bedrooms and all which that implied. It would be difficult.
Moreover, how could she tell Ashley that she had denied herself to
Rhett, because of his wishes? What earthly good was a sacrifice if
no one knew about it? What a burden modesty and delicacy were! If
she could only talk to Ashley as frankly as she could to Rhett!
Well, no matter. She'd insinuate the truth to Ashley somehow.

She went up the stairs and, opening the nursery door, found Rhett
sitting beside Bonnie's crib with Ella upon his lap and Wade
displaying the contents of his pocket to him. What a blessing
Rhett liked children and made much of them! Some stepfathers were
so bitter about children of former marriages.

"I want to talk to you," she said and passed on into their bedroom.
Better have this over now while her determination not to have any
more children was hot within her and while Ashley's love was giving
her strength.

"Rhett," she said abruptly when he had closed the bedroom door
behind him, "I've decided that I don't want any more children."

If he was startled at her unexpected statement he did not show it.
He lounged to a chair and sitting down, tilted it back.

"My pet, as I told you before Bonnie was born, it is immaterial to
me whether you have one child or twenty."

How perverse of him to evade the issue so neatly, as if not caring
whether children came had anything to do with their actual arrival.

"I think three are enough. I don't intend to have one every year."

"Three seems an adequate number."

"You know very well--" she began, embarrassment making her cheeks
red. "You know what I mean?"

"I do. Do you realize that I can divorce you for refusing me my
marital rights?"

"You are just low enough to think of something like that," she
cried, annoyed that nothing was going as she planned it. "If you
had any chivalry you'd--you'd be nice like-- Well, look at Ashley
Wilkes. Melanie can't have any children and he--"

"Quite the little gentleman, Ashley," said Rhett and his eyes began
to gleam oddly. "Pray go on with your discourse."

Scarlett choked, for her discourse was at its end and she had
nothing more to say. Now she saw how foolish had been her hope of
amicably settling so important a matter, especially with a selfish
swine like Rhett.

"You've been to the lumber office this afternoon, haven't you?"

"What has that to do with it?"

"You like dogs, don't you, Scarlett? Do you prefer them in kennels
or mangers?"

The allusion was lost on her as the tide of her anger and
disappointment rose.

He got lightly to his feet and coming to her put his hand under her
chin and jerked her face up to his.

"What a child you are! You have lived with three men and still
know nothing of men's natures. You seem to think they are like old
ladies past the change of life."

He pinched her chin playfully and his hand dropped away from her.
One black eyebrow went up as he bent a cool long look on her.

"Scarlett, understand this. If you and your bed still held any
charms for me, no looks and no entreaties could keep me away. And
I would have no sense of shame for anything I did, for I made a
bargain with you--a bargain which I have kept and you are now
breaking. Keep your chaste bed, my dear."

"Do you mean to tell me," cried Scarlett indignantly, "that you
don't care--"

"You have tired of me, haven't you? Well, men tire more easily
than women. Keep your sanctity, Scarlett. It will work no
hardship on me. It doesn't matter," he shrugged and grinned.
"Fortunately the world is full of beds--and most of the beds are
full of women."

"You mean you'd actually be so--"

"My dear innocent! But, of course. It's a wonder I haven't
strayed long ere this. I never held fidelity to be a Virtue."

"I shall lock my door every night!"

"Why bother? If I wanted you, no lock would keep me out."

He turned, as though the subject were closed, and left the room.
Scarlett heard him going back to the nursery where he was welcomed
by the children. She sat down abruptly. She had had her way.
This was what she wanted and Ashley wanted. But it was not making
her happy. Her vanity was sore and she was mortified at the
thought that Rhett had taken it all so lightly, that he didn't want
her, that he put her on the level of other women in other beds.

She wished she could think of some delicate way to tell Ashley that
she and Rhett were no longer actually man and wife. But she knew
now she could not. It all seemed a terrible mess now and she half
heartedly wished she had said nothing about it. She would miss the
long amusing conversations in bed with Rhett when the ember of his
cigar glowed in the dark. She would miss the comfort of his arms
when she woke terrified from the dreams that she was running
through cold mist.

Suddenly she felt very unhappy and leaning her head on the arm of
the chair, she cried.



CHAPTER LII


One rainy afternoon when Bonnie was barely past her first birthday,
Wade moped about the sitting room, occasionally going to the window
and flattening his nose on the dripping pane. He was a slender,
weedy boy, small for his eight years, quiet almost to shyness,
never speaking unless spoken to. He was bored and obviously at
loss for entertainment, for Ella was busy in the corner with her
dolls, Scarlett was at her secretary muttering to herself as she
added a long column of figures, and Rhett was lying on the floor,
swinging his watch by its chain, just out of Bonnie's reach.

After Wade had picked up several books and let them drop with bangs
and sighed deeply, Scarlett turned to him in irritation.

"Heavens, Wade! Run out and play."

"I can't. It's raining."

"Is it? I hadn't noticed. Well, do something. You make me
nervous, fidgeting about. Go tell Pork to hitch up the carriage
and take you over to play with Beau."

"He isn't home," sighed Wade. "He's at Raoul Picard's birthday
party."

Raoul was the small son of Maybelle and Rene Picard--a detestable
little brat, Scarlett thought, more like an ape than a child.

"Well, you can go to see anyone you want to. Run tell Pork."

"Nobody's at home," answered Wade. "Everybody's at the party."

The unspoken words "everybody--but me" hung in the air; but
Scarlett, her mind on her account books, paid no heed.

Rhett raised himself to a sitting posture and said: "Why aren't
you at the party too, son?"

Wade edged closer to him, scuffing one foot and looking unhappy.

"I wasn't invited, sir."

Rhett handed his watch into Bonnie's destructive grasp and rose
lightly to his feet.

"Leave those damned figures alone, Scarlett. Why wasn't Wade
invited to this party?"

"For Heaven's sake, Rhett! Don't bother me now. Ashley has gotten
these accounts in an awful snarl-- Oh, that party? Well, I think
it's nothing unusual that Wade wasn't invited and I wouldn't let
him go if he had been. Don't forget that Raoul is Mrs. Merriwether's
grandchild and Mrs. Merriwether would as soon have a free issue
nigger in her sacred parlor as one of us."

Rhett, watching Wade's face with meditative eyes, saw the boy
flinch.

"Come here, son," he said, drawing the boy to him. "Would you like
to be at that party?"

"No, sir," said Wade bravely but his eyes fell.

"Hum. Tell me, Wade, do you go to little Joe Whiting's parties or
Frank Bonnell's or--well, any of your playmates?"

"No, sir. I don't get invited to many parties."

"Wade, you are lying!" cried Scarlett, turning. "You went to three
last week, the Bart children's party and the Gelerts' and the
Hundons'."

"As choice a collection of mules in horse harness as you could
group together," said Rhett, his voice going into a soft drawl.
"Did you have a good time at those parties? Speak up."

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

"I--I dunno, sir. Mammy--Mammy says they're white trash."

"I'll skin Mammy this minute!" cried Scarlett, leaping to her feet.
"And as for you, Wade, talking so about Mother's friends--"

"The boy's telling the truth and so is Mammy," said Rhett. "But,
of course, you've never been able to know the truth if you met it
in the road. . . . Don't bother, son. You don't have to go to any
more parties you don't want to go to. Here," he pulled a bill from
his pocket, "tell Pork to harness the carriage and take you
downtown. Buy yourself some candy--a lot, enough to give you a
wonderful stomach ache."

Wade, beaming, pocketed the bill and looked anxiously toward his
mother for confirmation. But she, with a pucker in her brows, was
watching Rhett. He had picked Bonnie from the floor and was
cradling her to him, her small face against his cheek. She could
not read his face but there was something in his eyes almost like
fear--fear and self-accusation.

Wade, encouraged by his stepfather's generosity, came shyly toward
him.

"Uncle Rhett, can I ask you sumpin'?"

"Of course." Rhett's look was anxious, absent, as he held Bonnie's
head closer. "What is it, Wade?"

"Uncle Rhett, were you--did you fight in the war?"

Rhett's eyes came alertly back and they were sharp, but his voice
was casual.

"Why do you ask, son?"

"Well, Joe Whiting said you didn't and so did Frankie Bonnell."

"Ah," said Rhett, "and what did you tell them?"

Wade looked unhappy.

"I--I said--I told them I didn't know." And with a rush, "But I
didn't care and I hit them. Were you in the war, Uncle Rhett?"

"Yes," said Rhett, suddenly violent. "I was in the war. I was in
the army for eight months. I fought all the way from Lovejoy up to
Franklin, Tennessee. And I was with Johnston when he surrendered."

Wade wriggled with pride but Scarlett laughed.

"I thought you were ashamed of your war record," she said. "Didn't
you tell me to keep it quiet?"

"Hush," he said briefly. "Does that satisfy you, Wade?"

"Oh, yes, sir! I knew you were in the war. I knew you weren't
scared like they said. But--why weren't you with the other little
boys' fathers?"

"Because the other little boys' fathers were such fools they had to
put them in the infantry. I was a West Pointer and so I was in the
artillery. In the regular artillery, Wade, not the Home Guard. It
takes a pile of sense to be in the artillery, Wade."

"I bet," said Wade, his face shining. "Did you get wounded, Uncle
Rhett?"

Rhett hesitated.

"Tell him about your dysentery," jeered Scarlett.

Rhett carefully set the baby on the floor and pulled his shirt and
undershirt out of his trouser band.

"Come here, Wade, and I'll show you where I was wounded."

Wade advanced, excited, and gazed where Rhett's finger pointed. A
long raised scar ran across his brown chest and down into his
heavily muscled abdomen. It was the souvenir of a knife fight in
the California gold fields but Wade did not know it. He breathed
heavily and happily.

"I guess you're 'bout as brave as my father, Uncle Rhett."

"Almost but not quite," said Rhett, stuffing his shirt into his
trousers. "Now, go on and spend your dollar and whale hell out of
any boy who says I wasn't in the army."

Wade went dancing out happily, calling to Pork, and Rhett picked up
the baby again.

"Now why all these lies, my gallant soldier laddie?" asked
Scarlett.

"A boy has to be proud of his father--or stepfather. I can't let
him be ashamed before the other little brutes. Cruel creatures,
children."

"Oh, fiddle-dee-dee!"

"I never thought about what it meant to Wade," said Rhett slowly.
"I never thought how he's suffered. And it's not going to be that
way for Bonnie."

"What way?"

"Do you think I'm going to have my Bonnie ashamed of her father?
Have her left out of parties when she's nine or ten? Do you think
I'm going to have her humiliated like Wade for things that aren't
her fault but yours and mine?"

"Oh, children's parties!"

"Out of children's parties grow young girls' debut parties. Do you
think I'm going to let my daughter grow up outside of everything
decent in Atlanta? I'm not going to send her North to school and
to visit because she won't be accepted here or in Charleston or
Savannah or New Orleans. And I'm not going to see her forced to
marry a Yankee or a foreigner because no decent Southern family
will have her--because her mother was a fool and her father a
blackguard."

Wade, who had come back to the door, was an interested but puzzled
listener.

"Bonnie can marry Beau, Uncle Rhett."

The anger went from Rhett's face as he turned to the little boy,
and he considered his words with apparent seriousness as he always
did when dealing with the children.

"That's true, Wade. Bonnie can marry Beau Wilkes, but who will you
marry?"

"Oh, I shan't marry anyone," said Wade confidently, luxuriating in
a man-to-man talk with the one person, except Aunt Melly, who never
reproved and always encouraged him. "I'm going to go to Harvard
and be a lawyer, like my father, and then I'm going to be a brave
soldier just like him."

"I wish Melly would keep her mouth shut," cried Scarlett. "Wade,
you are not going to Harvard. It's a Yankee school and I won't
have you going to a Yankee school. You are going to the University
of Georgia and after you graduate you are going to manage the store
for me. And as for your father being a brave soldier--"

"Hush," said Rhett curtly, not missing the shining light in Wade's
eyes when he spoke of the father he had never known. "You grow up
and be a brave man like your father, Wade. Try to be just like
him, for he was a hero and don't let anyone tell you differently.
He married your mother, didn't he? Well, that's proof enough of
heroism. And I'll see that you go to Harvard and become a lawyer.
Now, run along and tell Pork to take you to town."

"I'll thank you to let me manage my children," cried Scarlett as
Wade obediently trotted from the room.

"You're a damned poor manager. You've wrecked whatever chances
Ella and Wade had, but I won't permit you to do Bonnie that way.
Bonnie's going to be a little princess and everyone in the world is
going to want her. There's not going to be any place she can't go.
Good God, do you think I'm going to let her grow up and associate
with the riffraff that fills this house?"

"They are good enough for you--"

"And a damned sight too good for you, my pet. But not for Bonnie.
Do you think I'd let her marry any of this runagate gang you spend
your time with? Irishmen on the make, Yankees, white trash,
Carpetbag parvenus-- My Bonnie with her Butler blood and her
Robillard strain--"

"The O'Haras--"

"The O'Haras might have been kings of Ireland once but your father
was nothing but a smart Mick on the make. And you are no better--
But then, I'm at fault too. I've gone through life like a bat out
of hell, never caring what I did, because nothing ever mattered to
me. But Bonnie matters. God, what a fool I've been! Bonnie
wouldn't be received in Charleston, no matter what my mother or
your Aunt Eulalie or Aunt Pauline did--and it's obvious that she
won't be received here unless we do something quickly--"

"Oh, Rhett, you take it so seriously you're funny. With our money--"

"Damn our money! All our money can't buy what I want for her. I'd
rather Bonnie was invited to eat dry bread in the Picards'
miserable house or Mrs. Elsing's rickety barn than to be the belle
of a Republican inaugural ball. Scarlett, you've been a fool. You
should have insured a place for your children in the social scheme
years ago--but you didn't. You didn't even bother to keep what
position you had. And it's too much to hope that you'll mend your
ways at this late date. You're too anxious to make money and too
fond of bullying people."

"I consider this whole affair a tempest in a teapot," said Scarlett
coldly, rattling her papers to indicate that as far as she was
concerned the discussion was finished.

"We have only Mrs. Wilkes to help us and you do your best to
alienate and insult her. Oh, spare me your remarks about her
poverty and her tacky clothes. She's the soul and the center of
everything in Atlanta that's sterling. Thank God for her. She'll
help me do something about it."

"And what are you going to do?"

"Do? I'm going to cultivate every female dragon of the Old Guard
in this town, especially Mrs. Merriwether, Mrs. Elsing, Mrs.
Whiting and Mrs. Meade. If I have to crawl on my belly to every
fat old cat who hates me, I'll do it. I'll be meek under their
coldness and repentant of my evil ways. I'll contribute to their
damned charities and I'll go to their damned churches. I'll admit
and brag about my services to the Confederacy and, if worst comes
to worst, I'll join their damned Klan--though a merciful God could
hardly lay so heavy a penance on my shoulders as that. And I shall
not hesitate to remind the fools whose necks I saved that they owe
me a debt. And you, Madam, will kindly refrain from undoing my
work behind my back and foreclosing mortgages on any of the people
I'm courting or selling them rotten lumber or in other ways
insulting them. And Governor Bullock never sets foot in this house
again. Do you hear? And none of this gang of elegant thieves
you've been associating with, either. If you do invite them, over
my request, you will find yourself in the embarrassing position of
having no host in your home. If they come in this house, I will
spend the time in Belle Watling's bar telling anyone who cares to
hear that I won't stay under the same roof with them."

Scarlett, who had been smarting under his words, laughed shortly.

"So the river-boat gambler and the speculator is going to be
respectable! Well, your first move toward respectability had
better be the sale of Belle Watling's house."

That was a shot in the dark. She had never been absolutely certain
that Rhett owned the house. He laughed suddenly, as though he read
her mind.

"Thanks for the suggestion."



Had he tried, Rhett could not have chosen a more difficult time to
beat his way back to respectability. Never before or after did the
names Republican and Scallawag carry such odium, for now the
corruption of the Carpet bag regime was at its height. And, since
the surrender, Rhett's name had been inextricably linked with
Yankees, Republicans and Scallawags.

Atlanta people had thought, with helpless fury, in 1866, that
nothing could be worse than the harsh military rule they had then,
but now, under Bullock, they were learning the worst. Thanks to
the negro vote, the Republicans and their allies were firmly
entrenched and they were riding rough-shod over the powerless but
still protesting minority.

Word had been spread among the negroes that there were only two
political parties mentioned in the Bible, the Publicans and the
Sinners. No negro wanted to join a party made up entirely of
sinners, so they hastened to join the Republicans. Their new
masters voted them over and over again, electing poor whites and
Scallawags to high places, electing even some negroes. These
negroes sat in the legislature where they spent most of their time
eating goobers and easing their unaccustomed feet into and out of
new shoes. Few of them could read or write. They were fresh from
cotton patch and canebrake, but it was within their power to vote
taxes and bonds as well as enormous expense accounts to themselves
and their Republican friends. And they voted them. The state
staggered under taxes which were paid in fury, for the taxpayers
knew that much of the money voted for public purposes was finding
its way into private pockets.

Completely surrounding the state capitol was a host of promoters,
speculators, seekers after contracts and others hoping to profit
from the orgy of spending, and many were growing shamelessly rich.
They had no difficulty at all in obtaining the state's money for
building railroads that were never built, for buying cars and
engines that were never bought, for erecting public buildings that
never existed except in the minds of their promoters.

Bonds were issued running into the millions. Most of them were
illegal and fraudulent but they were issued just the same. The
state treasurer, a Republican but an honest man, protested against
the illegal issues and refused to sign them, but he and others who
sought to check the abuses could do nothing against the tide that
was running.

The state-owned railroad had once been an asset to the state but
now it was a liability and its debts had piled up to the million
mark. It was no longer a railroad. It was an enormous bottomless
trough in which the hogs could swill and wallow. Many of its
officials were appointed for political reasons, regardless of their
knowledge of the operation of railroads, there were three times as
many people employed as were necessary, Republicans rode free on
passes, carloads of negroes rode free on their happy jaunts about
the state to vote and revote in the same elections.

The mismanagement of the state road especially infuriated the
taxpayers for, out of the earnings of the road, was to come the
money for free schools. But there were no earnings, there were
only debts, and so there were no free schools and there was a
generation of children growing up in ignorance who would spread the
seeds of illiteracy down the years.

But far and above their anger at the waste and mismanagement and
graft was the resentment of the people at the bad light in which
the governor represented them in the North. When Georgia howled
against corruption, the governor hastily went North, appeared
before Congress and told of white outrages against negroes, of
Georgia's preparation for another rebellion and the need for a
stern military rule in the state. No Georgian wanted trouble with
the negroes and they tried to avoid trouble. No one wanted another
war, no one wanted or needed bayonet rule. All Georgia wanted was
to be let alone so the state could recuperate. But with the
operation of what came to be known as the governor's "slander
mill," the North saw only a rebellious state that needed a heavy
hand, and a heavy hand was laid upon it.

It was a glorious spree for the gang which had Georgia by the
throat. There was an orgy of grabbing and over all there was a
cold cynicism about open theft in high places that was chilling to
contemplate. Protests and efforts to resist accomplished nothing,
for the state government was being upheld and supported by the
power of the United States Army.

Atlanta cursed the name of Bullock and his Scallawags and
Republicans and they cursed the name of anyone connected with them.
And Rhett was connected with them. He had been in with them, so
everyone said, in all their schemes. But now, he turned against
the stream in which he had drifted so short a while before, and
began swimming arduously back against the current.

He went about his campaign slowly, subtly, not arousing the
suspicions of Atlanta by the spectacle of a leopard trying to
change his spots overnight. He avoided his dubious cronies and was
seen no more in the company of Yankee officers, Scallawags and
Republicans. He attended Democratic rallies and he ostentatiously
voted the Democratic ticket. He gave up high-stake card games and
stayed comparatively sober. If he went to Belle Watling's house at
all, he went by night and by stealth as did more respectable
townsmen, instead of leaving his horse hitched in front of her door
in the afternoons as an advertisement of his presence within.

And the congregation of the Episcopal Church almost fell out of
their pews when he tiptoed in, late for services, with Wade's hand
held in his. The congregation was as much stunned by Wade's
appearance as by Rhett's, for the little boy was supposed to be a
Catholic. At least, Scarlett was one. Or she was supposed to be
one. But she had not put foot in the church in years, for religion
had gone from her as many of Ellen's other teachings had gone.
Everyone thought she had neglected her boy's religious education
and thought more of Rhett for trying to rectify the matter, even if
he did take the boy to the Episcopal Church instead of the
Catholic.

Rhett could be grave of manner and charming when he chose to
restrain his tongue and keep his black eyes from dancing maliciously.
It had been years since he had chosen to do this but he did it now,
putting on gravity and charm, even as he put on waistcoats of more
sober hues. It was not difficult to gain a foothold of friendliness
with the men who owed their necks to him. They would have showed
their appreciation long ago, had Rhett not acted as if their
appreciation were a matter of small moment. Now, Hugh Elsing, Rene,
the Simmons boys, Andy Bonnell and the others found him pleasant,
diffident about putting himself forward and embarrassed when they
spoke of the obligation they owed him.

"It was nothing," he would protest. "In my place you'd have all
done the same thing."

He subscribed handsomely to the fund for the repairs of the
Episcopal Church and he gave a large, but not vulgarly large,
contribution to the Association for the Beautification of the
Graves of Our Glorious Dead. He sought out Mrs. Elsing to make
this donation and embarrassedly begged that she keep his gift a
secret, knowing very well that this would spur her to spreading the
news. Mrs. Elsing hated to take his money--"speculator money"--but
the Association needed money badly.

"I don't see why you of all people should be subscribing," she said
acidly.

When Rhett told her with the proper sober mien that he was moved to
contribute by the memories of former comrades in arms, braver than
he but less fortunate, who now lay in unmarked graves, Mrs.
Elsing's aristocratic jaw dropped. Dolly Merriwether had told her
Scarlett had said Captain Butler was in the army but, of course,
she hadn't believed it. Nobody had believed it.

"You in the army? What was your company--your regiment?"

Rhett gave them.

"Oh, the artillery! Everyone I knew was either in the cavalry or
the infantry. Then, that explains--" She broke off, disconcerted,
expecting to see his eyes snap with malice. But he only looked
down and toyed with his watch chain.

"I would have liked the infantry," he said, passing completely over
her insinuation, "but when they found that I was a West Pointer--
though I did not graduate, Mrs. Elsing, due to a boyish prank--they
put me in the artillery, the regular artillery, not the militia.
They needed men with specialized knowledge in that last campaign.
You know how heavy the losses had been, so many artillerymen
killed. It was pretty lonely in the artillery. I didn't see a
soul I knew. I don't believe I saw a single man from Atlanta
during my whole service."

"Well!" said Mrs. Elsing, confused. If he had been in the army
then she was wrong. She had made many sharp remarks about his
cowardice and the memory of them made her feel guilty. "Well! And
why haven't you ever told anybody about your service? You act as
though you were ashamed of it."

Rhett looked her squarely in the eyes, his face blank.

"Mrs. Elsing," he said earnestly, "believe me when I say that I am
prouder of my services to the Confederacy than of anything I have
ever done or will do. I feel--I feel--"

"Well, why did you keep it hidden?"

"I was ashamed to speak of it, in the light of--of some of my
former actions."

Mrs. Elsing reported the contribution and the conversation in
detail to Mrs. Merriwether.

"And, Dolly, I give you my word that when he said that about being
ashamed, tears came into his eyes! Yes, tears! I nearly cried
myself."

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried Mrs. Merriwether in disbelief. "I don't
believe tears came into his eyes any more than I believe he was in
the army. And I can find out mighty quick. If he was in that
artillery outfit, I can get at the truth, for Colonel Carleton who
commanded it married the daughter of one of my grandfather's
sisters and I'll write him."

She wrote Colonel Carlton and to her consternation received a reply
praising Rhett's services in no uncertain terms. A born
artilleryman, a brave soldier and an uncomplaining gentleman, a
modest man who wouldn't even take a commission when it was offered
him.

"Well!" said Mrs. Merriwether showing the letter to Mrs. Elsing.
"You can knock me down with a feather! Maybe we did misjudge the
scamp about not being a soldier. Maybe we should have believed
what Scarlett and Melanie said about him enlisting the day the town
fell. But, just the same, he's a Scallawag and a rascal and I
don't like him!"

"Somehow," said Mrs. Elsing uncertainly, "somehow, I don't think
he's so bad. A man who fought for the Confederacy can't be all
bad. It's Scarlett who is the bad one. Do you know, Dolly, I
really believe that he--well, he's ashamed of Scarlett but is too
much of a gentleman to let on."

"Ashamed! Pooh! They're both cut out of the same piece of cloth.
Where did you ever get such a silly notion?"

"It isn't silly," said Mrs. Elsing indignantly. "Yesterday, in the
pouring rain, he had those three children, even the baby, mind you,
out in his carriage riding them up and down Peachtree Street and he
gave me a lift home. And when I said: 'Captain Butler, have you
lost your mind keeping these children out in the damp? Why don't
you take them home?' And he didn't say a word but just looked
embarrassed. But Mammy spoke up and said: 'De house full of w'ite
trash an' it healthier fer de chillun in de rain dan at home!'"

"What did he say?"

"What could he say? He just scowled at Mammy and passed it over.
You know Scarlett was giving a big whist party yesterday afternoon
with all those common ordinary women there. I guess he didn't want
them kissing his baby."

"Well!" said Mrs. Merriwether, wavering but still obstinate. But
the next week she, too, capitulated.

Rhett now had a desk in the bank. What he did at this desk the
bewildered officials of the bank did not know, but he owned too
large a block of the stock for them to protest his presence there.
After a while they forgot that they had objected to him for he was
quiet and well mannered and actually knew something about banking
and investments. At any rate he sat at his desk all day, giving
every appearance of industry, for he wished to be on equal terms
with his respectable fellow townsmen who worked and worked hard.

Mrs. Merriwether, wishing to expand her growing bakery, had tried
to borrow two thousand dollars from the bank with her house as
security. She had been refused because there were already two
mortgages on the house. The stout old lady was storming out of the
bank when Rhett stopped her, learned the trouble and said,
worriedly: "But there must be some mistake, Mrs. Merriwether.
Some dreadful mistake. You of all people shouldn't have to bother
about collateral. Why, I'd lend you money just on your word! Any
lady who could build up the business you've built up is the best
risk in the world. The bank wants to lend money to people like
you. Now, do sit down right here in my chair and I will attend to
it for you."

When he came back he was smiling blandly, saying that there had
been a mistake, just as he had thought. The two thousand dollars
was right there waiting for her whenever she cared to draw against
it. Now, about her house--would she just sign right here?

Mrs. Merriwether, torn with indignation and insult, furious that
she had to take this favor from a man she disliked and distrusted,
was hardly gracious in her thanks.

But he failed to notice it. As he escorted her to the door, he
said: "Mrs. Merriwether, I have always had a great regard for your
knowledge and I wonder if you could tell me something?"

The plumes on her bonnet barely moved as she nodded.

"What did you do when your Maybelle was little and she sucked her
thumb?"

"What?"

"My Bonnie sucks her thumb. I can't make her stop it."

"You should make her stop it," said Mrs. Merriwether vigorously.
"It will ruin the shape of her mouth."

"I know! I know! And she has a beautiful mouth. But I don't know
what to do."

"Well, Scarlett ought to know," said Mrs. Merriwether shortly.
"She's had two other children."

Rhett looked down at his shoes and sighed.

"I've tried putting soap under her finger nails," he said, passing
over her remark about Scarlett.

"Soap! Bah! Soap is no good at all. I put quinine on Maybelle's
thumb and let me tell you, Captain Butler, she stopped sucking that
thumb mighty quick."

"Quinine! I would never have thought of it! I can't thank you
enough, Mrs. Merriwether. It was worrying me."

He gave her a smile, so pleasant, so grateful that Mrs. Merriwether
stood uncertainly for a moment. But as she told him good-by she
was smiling too. She hated to admit to Mrs. Elsing that she had
misjudged the man but she was an honest person and she said there
had to be something good about a man who loved his child. What a
pity Scarlett took no interest in so pretty a creature as Bonnie!
There was something pathetic about a man trying to raise a little
girl all by himself! Rhett knew very well the pathos of the
spectacle, and if it blackened Scarlett's reputation he did not
care.

From the time the child could walk he took her about with him
constantly, in the carriage or in front of his saddle. When he
came home from the bank in the afternoon, he took her walking down
Peachtree Street, holding her hand, slowing his long strides to her
toddling steps, patiently answering her thousand questions. People
were always in their front yards or on their porches at sunset and,
as Bonnie was such a friendly, pretty child, with her tangle of
black curls and her bright blue eyes, few could resist talking to
her. Rhett never presumed on these conversations but stood by,
exuding fatherly pride and gratification at the notice taken of his
daughter.

Atlanta had a long memory and was suspicious and slow to change.
Times were hard and feeling was bitter against anyone who had had
anything to do with Bullock and his crowd. But Bonnie had the
combined charm of Scarlett and Rhett at their best and she was the
small opening wedge Rhett drove into the wall of Atlanta's
coldness.



Bonnie grew rapidly and every day it became more evident that
Gerald O'Hara had been her grandfather. She had short sturdy legs
and wide eyes of Irish blue and a small square jaw that went with a
determination to have her own way. She had Gerald's sudden temper
to which she gave vent in screaming tantrums that were forgotten as
soon as her wishes were gratified. And as long as her father was
near her, they were always gratified hastily. He spoiled her
despite all the efforts of Mammy and Scarlett, for in all things
she pleased him, except one. And that was her fear of the dark.

Until she was two years old she went to sleep readily in the
nursery she shared with Wade and Ella. Then, for no apparent
reason, she began to sob whenever Mammy waddled out of the room,
carrying the lamp. From this she progressed to wakening in the
late night hours, screaming with terror, frightening the other two
children and alarming the house. Once Dr. Meade had to be called
and Rhett was short with him when he diagnosed only bad dreams.
All anyone could get from her was one word, "Dark."

Scarlett was inclined to be irritated with the child and favored a
spanking. She would not humor her by leaving a lamp burning in the
nursery, for then Wade and Ella would be unable to sleep. Rhett,
worried but gentle, attempting to extract further information from
his daughter, said coldly that if any spanking were done, he would
do it personally and to Scarlett.

The upshot of the situation was that Bonnie was removed from the
nursery to the room Rhett now occupied alone. Her small bed was
placed beside his large one and a shaded lamp burned on the table
all night long. The town buzzed when this story got about.
Somehow, there was something indelicate about a girl child sleeping
in her father's room, even though the girl was only two years old.
Scarlett suffered from this gossip in two ways. First, it proved
indubitably that she and her husband occupied separate rooms, in
itself a shocking enough state of affairs. Second, everyone
thought that if the child was afraid to sleep alone, her place was
with her mother. And Scarlett did not feel equal to explaining
that she could not sleep in a lighted room nor would Rhett permit
the child to sleep with her.

"You'd never wake up unless she screamed and then you'd probably
slap her," he said shortly.

Scarlett was annoyed at the weight he attached to Bonnie's night
terrors but she thought she could eventually remedy the state of
affairs and transfer the child back to the nursery. All children
were afraid of the dark and the only cure was firmness. Rhett was
just being perverse in the matter, making her appear a poor mother,
just to pay her back for banishing him from her room.

He had never put foot in her room or even rattled the door knob
since the night she told him she did not want any more children.
Thereafter and until he began staying at home on account of
Bonnie's fears, he had been absent from the supper table more often
than he had been present. Sometimes he had stayed out all night
and Scarlett, lying awake behind her locked door, hearing the clock
count off the early morning hours, wondered where he was. She
remembered: "There are other beds, my dear!" Though the thought
made her writhe, there was nothing she could do about it. There
was nothing she could say that would not precipitate a scene in
which he would be sure to remark upon her locked door and the
probable connection Ashley had with it. Yes, his foolishness about
Bonnie sleeping in a lighted room--in his lighted room--was just a
mean way of paying her back.

She did not realize the importance he attached to Bonnie's
foolishness nor the completeness of his devotion to the child until
one dreadful night. The family never forgot that night.

That day Rhett had met an ex-blockade runner and they had had much
to say to each other. Where they had gone to talk and drink,
Scarlett did not know but she suspected, of course, Belle Watling's
house. He did not come home in the afternoon to take Bonnie
walking nor did he come home to supper. Bonnie, who had watched
from the window impatiently all afternoon, anxious to display a
mangled collection of beetles and roaches to her father, had
finally been put to bed by Lou, amid wails and protests.

Either Lou had forgotten to light the lamp or it had burned out.
No one ever knew exactly what happened but when Rhett finally came
home, somewhat the worse for drink, the house was in an uproar and
Bonnie's screams reached him even in the stables. She had waked in
darkness and called for him and he had not been there. All the
nameless horrors that peopled her small imagination clutched her.
All the soothing and bright lights brought by Scarlett and the
servants could not quiet her and Rhett, coming up the stairs three
at a jump, looked like a man who has seen Death.

When he finally had her in his arms and from her sobbing gasps had
recognized only one word, "Dark," he turned on Scarlett and the
negroes in fury.

"Who put out the light? Who left her alone in the dark? Prissy,
I'll skin you for this, you--"

"Gawdlmighty, Mist' Rhett! 'Twarn't me! 'Twuz Lou!"

"Fo' Gawd, Mist' Rhett, Ah--"

"Shut up. You know my orders. By God, I'll--get out. Don't come
back. Scarlett, give her some money and see that she's gone before
I come down stairs. Now, everybody get out, everybody!"

The negroes fled, the luckless Lou wailing into her apron. But
Scarlett remained. It was hard to see her favorite child quieting
in Rhett's arms when she had screamed so pitifully in her own. It
was hard to see the small arms going around his neck and hear the
choking voice relate what had frightened her, when she, Scarlett,
had gotten nothing coherent out of her.

"So it sat on your chest," said Rhett softly. "Was it a big one?"

"Oh, yes! Dretfull big. And claws."

"Ah, claws, too. Well, now. I shall certainly sit up all night
and shoot him if he comes back." Rhett's voice was interested and
soothing and Bonnie's sobs died away. Her voice became less choked
as she went into detailed description of her monster guest in a
language which only he could understand. Irritation stirred in
Scarlett as Rhett discussed the matter as if it had been something
real.

"For Heaven's sake, Rhett--"

But he made a sign for silence. When Bonnie was at last asleep, he
laid her in her bed and pulled up the sheet.

"I'm going to skin that nigger alive," he said quietly. "It's your
fault too. Why didn't you come up here to see if the light was
burning?"

"Don't be a fool, Rhett," she whispered. "She gets this way
because you humor her. Lots of children are afraid of the dark but
they get over it. Wade was afraid but I didn't pamper him. If
you'd just let her scream for a night or two--"

"Let her scream!" For a moment Scarlett thought he would hit her.
"Either you are a fool or the most inhuman woman I've ever seen."

"I don't want her to grow up nervous and cowardly."

"Cowardly? Hell's afire! There isn't a cowardly bone in her body!
But you haven't any imagination and, of course, you can't
appreciate the tortures of people who have one--especially a child.
If something with claws and horns came and sat on your chest, you'd
tell it to get the hell off you, wouldn't you? Like hell you
would. Kindly remember, Madam, that I've seen you wake up
squalling like a scalded cat simply because you dreamed of running
in a fog. And that's not been so long ago either!"

Scarlett was taken aback, for she never liked to think of that
dream. Moreover, it embarrassed her to remember that Rhett had
comforted her in much the same manner he comforted Bonnie. So she
swung rapidly to a different attack.

"You are just humoring her and--"

"And I intend to keep on humoring her. If I do, she'll outgrow it
and forget about it."

"Then," said Scarlett acidly, "if you intend to play nursemaid, you
might try coming home nights and sober too, for a change."

"I shall come home early but drunk as a fiddler's bitch if I
please."

He did come home early thereafter, arriving long before time for
Bonnie to be put to bed. He sat beside her, holding her hand until
sleep loosened her grasp. Only then did he tiptoe downstairs,
leaving the lamp burning brightly and the door ajar so he might
hear her should she awake and become frightened. Never again did
he intend her to have a recurrence of fear of the dark. The whole
household was acutely conscious of the burning light, Scarlett,
Mammy, Prissy and Pork, frequently tiptoeing upstairs to make sure
that it still burned.

He came home sober too, but that was none of Scarlett's doing. For
months he had been drinking heavily, though he was never actually
drunk, and one evening the smell of whisky was especially strong
upon his breath. He picked up Bonnie, swung her to his shoulder
and asked her: "Have you a kiss for your sweetheart?"

She wrinkled her small upturned nose and wriggled to get down from
his arms.

"No," she said frankly. "Nasty."

"I'm what?"

"Smell nasty. Uncle Ashley don't smell nasty."

"Well, I'll be damned," he said ruefully, putting her on the floor.
"I never expected to find a temperance advocate in my own home, of
all places!"

But, thereafter, he limited his drinking to a glass of wine after
supper. Bonnie, who was always permitted to have the last drops in
the glass, did not think the smell of wine nasty at all. As the
result, the puffiness which had begun to obscure the hard lines of
his cheeks slowly disappeared and the circles beneath his black
eyes were not so dark or so harshly cut. Because Bonnie liked to
ride on the front of his saddle, he stayed out of doors more and
the sunburn began to creep across his dark face, making him
swarthier than ever. He looked healthier and laughed more and was
again like the dashing young blockader who had excited Atlanta
early in the war.

People who had never liked him came to smile as he went by with the
small figure perched before him on his saddle. Women who had
heretofore believed that no woman was safe with him, began to stop
and talk with him on the streets, to admire Bonnie. Even the
strictest old ladies felt that a man who could discuss the ailments
and problems of childhood as well as he did could not be altogether
bad.



CHAPTER LIII


It was Ashley's birthday and Melanie was giving him a surprise
reception that night. Everyone knew about the reception, except
Ashley. Even Wade and little Beau knew and were sworn to secrecy
that puffed them up with pride. Everyone in Atlanta who was nice
had been invited and was coming. General Gordon and his family had
graciously accepted, Alexander Stephens would be present if his
ever-uncertain health permitted and even Bob Toombs, the stormy
petrel of the Confederacy, was expected.

All that morning, Scarlett, with Melanie, India and Aunt Pitty flew
about the little house, directing the negroes as they hung freshly
laundered curtains, polished silver, waxed the floor and cooked,
stirred and tasted the refreshments. Scarlett had never seen
Melanie so excited or so happy.

"You see, dear, Ashley hasn't had a birthday party since--since,
you remember the barbecue at Twelve Oaks? The day we heard about
Mr. Lincoln's call for volunteers? Well, he hasn't had a birthday
party since then. And he works so hard and he's so tired when he
gets home at night that he really hasn't thought about today being
his birthday. And won't he be surprised after supper when
everybody troops in!"

"How you goin' to manage them lanterns on the lawn without Mr.
Wilkes seein' them when he comes home to supper?" demanded Archie
grumpily.

He had sat all morning watching the preparations, interested but
unwilling to admit it. He had never been behind the scenes at a
large town folks' party and it was a new experience. He made frank
remarks about women running around like the house was afire, just
because they were having company, but wild horses could not have
dragged him from the scene. The colored-paper lanterns which Mrs.
Elsing and Fanny had made and painted for the occasion held a
special interest for him, as he had never seen "sech contraptions"
before. They had been hidden in his room in the cellar and he had
examined them minutely.

"Mercy! I hadn't thought of that!" cried Melanie. "Archie, how
fortunate that you mentioned it. Dear, dear! What shall I do?
They've got to be strung on the bushes and trees and little candles
put in them and lighted just at the proper time when the guests are
arriving. Scarlett, can you send Pork down to do it while we're
eating supper?"

"Miz Wilkes, you got more sense than most women but you gits
flurried right easy," said Archie. "And as for that fool nigger,
Pork, he ain't got no bizness with them thar contraptions. He'd
set them afire in no time. They are--right pretty," he conceded.
"I'll hang them for you, whilst you and Mr. Wilkes are eatin'."

"Oh, Archie, how kind of you!" Melanie turned childlike eyes of
gratitude and dependence upon him. "I don't know what I should do
without you. Do you suppose you could go put the candles in them
now, so we'd have that much out of the way?"

"Well, I could, p'raps," said Archie ungraciously and stumped off
toward the cellar stairs.

"There's more ways of killing a cat than choking him to death with
butter," giggled Melanie when the whiskered old man had thumped
down the stairs. "I had intended all along for Archie to put up
those lanterns but you know how he is. He won't do a thing if you
ask him to. And now we've got him out from underfoot for a while.
The darkies are so scared of him they just won't do any work when
he's around, breathing down their necks."

"Melly, I wouldn't have that old desperado in my house," said
Scarlett crossly. She hated Archie as much as he hated her and
they barely spoke. Melanie's was the only house in which he would
remain if she were present. And even in Melanie's house, he stared
at her with suspicion and cold contempt. "He'll cause you trouble,
mark my words."

"Oh, he's harmless if you flatter him and act like you depend on
him," said Melanie. "And he's so devoted to Ashley and Beau that I
always feel safe having him around."

"You mean he's so devoted to you, Melly," said India, her cold face
relaxing into a faintly warm smile as her gaze rested fondly on her
sister-in-law. "I believe you're the first person that old ruffian
has loved since his wife--er--since his wife. I think he'd really
like for somebody to insult you, so he could kill them to show his
respect for you."

"Mercy! How you run on, India!" said Melanie blushing. "He thinks
I'm a terrible goose and you know it."

"Well, I don't see that what that smelly old hill-billy thinks is
of any importance," said Scarlett abruptly. The very thought of
how Archie had sat in judgment upon her about the convicts always
enraged her. "I have to go now. I've got to go get dinner and
then go by the store and pay off the clerks and go by the lumber
yard and pay the drivers and Hugh Elsing."

"Oh, are you going to the lumber yard?" asked Melanie. "Ashley is
coming in to the yard in the late afternoon to see Hugh. Can you
possibly hold him there till five o'clock? If he comes home
earlier he'll be sure to catch us finishing up a cake or something
and then he won't be surprised at all."

Scarlett smiled inwardly, good temper restored.

"Yes, I'll hold him," she said.

As she spoke, India's pale lashless eyes met hers piercingly. She
always looks at me so oddly when I speak of Ashley, thought
Scarlett.

"Well, hold him there as long as you can after five o'clock," said
Melanie. "And then India will drive down and pick him up. . . .
Scarlett, do come early tonight. I don't want you to miss a minute
of the reception."

As Scarlett rode home she thought sullenly: "She doesn't want me
to miss a minute of the reception, eh? Well then, why didn't she
invite me to receive with her and India and Aunt Pitty?"

Generally, Scarlett would not have cared whether she received at
Melly's piddling parties or not. But this was the largest party
Melanie had ever given and Ashley's birthday party too, and
Scarlett longed to stand by Ashley's side and receive with him.
But she knew why she had not been invited to receive. Even had she
not known it, Rhett's comment on the subject had been frank enough.

"A Scallawag receive when all the prominent ex-Confederates and
Democrats are going to be there? Your notions are as enchanting as
they are muddle headed. It's only because of Miss Melly's loyalty
that you are invited at all."

Scarlett dressed with more than usual care that afternoon for her
trip to the store and the lumber yard, wearing the new dull-green
changeable taffeta frock that looked lilac in some lights and the
new pale-green bonnet, circled about with dark-green plumes. If
only Rhett would let her cut bangs and frizzle them on her
forehead, how much better this bonnet would look! But he had
declared that he would shave her whole head if she banged her
forelocks. And these days he acted so atrociously he really might
do it.

It was a lovely afternoon, sunny but not too hot, bright but not
glaring, and the warm breeze that rustled the trees along Peachtree
Street made the plumes on Scarlett's bonnet dance. Her heart
danced too, as always when she was going to see Ashley. Perhaps,
if she paid off the team drivers and Hugh early, they would go home
and leave her and Ashley alone in the square little office in the
middle of the lumber yard. Chances to see Ashley alone were all
too infrequent these days. And to think that Melanie had asked her
to hold him! That was funny!

Her heart was merry when she reached the store, and she paid off
Willie and the other counter boys without even asking what the
day's business had been. It was Saturday, the biggest day of the
week for the store, for all the farmers came to town to shop that
day, but she asked no questions.

Along the way to the lumber yard she stopped a dozen times to speak
with Carpetbagger ladies in splendid equipages--not so splendid as
her own, she thought with pleasure--and with many men who came
through the red dust of the street to stand hat in hand and
compliment her. It was a beautiful afternoon, she was happy, she
looked pretty and her progress was a royal one. Because of these
delays she arrived at the lumber yard later than she intended and
found Hugh and the team drivers sitting on a low pile of lumber
waiting for her.

"Is Ashley here?"

"Yes, he's in the office," said Hugh, the habitually worried
expression leaving his face at the sight of her happy, dancing
eyes. "He's trying to--I mean, he's going over the books."

"Oh, he needn't bother about that today," she said and then
lowering her voice: "Melly sent me down to keep him here till they
get the house straight for the reception tonight."

Hugh smiled for he was going to the reception. He liked parties
and he guessed Scarlett did too from the way she looked this
afternoon. She paid off the teamsters and Hugh and, abruptly
leaving them, walked toward the office, showing plainly by her
manner that she did not care to be accompanied. Ashley met her at
the door and stood in the afternoon sunshine, his hair bright and
on his lips a little smile that was almost a grin.

"Why, Scarlett, what are you doing downtown this time of the day?
Why aren't you out at my house helping Melly get ready for the
surprise party?"

"Why, Ashley Wilkes!" she cried indignantly. "You weren't supposed
to know a thing about it. Melly will be so disappointed if you
aren't surprised."

"Oh, I won't let on. I'll be the most surprised man in Atlanta,"
said Ashley, his eyes laughing.

"Now, who was mean enough to tell you?"

"Practically every man Melly invited. General Gordon was the
first. He said it had been his experience that when women gave
surprise parties they usually gave them on the very nights men had
decided to polish and clean all the guns in the house. And then
Grandpa Merriwether warned me. He said Mrs. Merriwether gave him a
surprise party once and she was the most surprised person there,
because Grandpa had been treating his rheumatism, on the sly, with
a bottle of whisky and he was too drunk to get out of bed and--oh,
every man who's ever had a surprise party given him told me."

"The mean things!" cried Scarlett but she had to smile.

He looked like the old Ashley she knew at twelve Oaks when he
smiled like this. And he smiled so seldom these days. The air was
so soft, the sun so gentle, Ashley's face so gay, his talk so
unconstrained that her heart leaped with happiness. It swelled in
her bosom until it positively ached with pleasure, ached as with a
burden of joyful, hot, unshed tears. Suddenly she felt sixteen
again and happy, a little breathless and excited. She had a mad
impulse to snatch off her bonnet and toss it into the air and cry
"Hurray!" Then she thought how startled Ashley would be if she did
this, and she suddenly laughed, laughed until tears came to her
eyes. He laughed, too, throwing back his head as though he enjoyed
laughter, thinking her mirth came from the friendly treachery of
the men who had given Melly's secret away.

"Come in, Scarlett. I'm going over the books."

She passed into the small room, blazing with the afternoon sun, and
sat down in the chair before the roll-topped desk. Ashley,
following her, seated himself on the corner of the rough table, his
long legs dangling easily.

"Oh, don't let's fool with any books this afternoon, Ashley! I
just can't be bothered. When I'm wearing a new bonnet, it seems
like all the figures I know leave my head."

"Figures are well lost when the bonnet's as pretty as that one," he
said. "Scarlett, you get prettier all the time!"

He slipped from the table and, laughing, took her hands, spreading
them wide so he could see her dress. "You are so pretty! I don't
believe you'll ever get old!"

At his touch she realized that, without being conscious of it, she
had hoped that just this thing would happen. All this happy
afternoon, she had hoped for the warmth of his hands, the
tenderness of his eyes, a word that would show he cared. This was
the first time they had been utterly alone since the cold day in
the orchard at Tara, the first time their hands had met in any but
formal gestures, and through the long months she had hungered for
closer contact. But now--

How odd that the touch of his hands did not excite her! Once his
very nearness would have set her a-tremble. Now she felt a curious
warm friendliness and content. No fever leaped from his hands to
hers and in his hands her heart hushed to happy quietness. This
puzzled her, made her a little disconcerted. He was still her
Ashley, still her bright, shining darling and she loved him better
than life. Then why--

But she pushed the thought from her mind. It was enough that she
was with him and he was holding her hands and smiling, completely
friendly, without strain or fever. It seemed miraculous that this
could be when she thought of all the unsaid things that lay between
them. His eyes looked into hers, clear and shining, smiling in the
old way she loved, smiling as though there had never been anything
between them but happiness. There was no barrier between his eyes
and hers now, no baffling remoteness. She laughed.

"Oh, Ashley, I'm getting old and decrepit."

"Ah, that's very apparent! No, Scarlett, when you are sixty,
you'll look the same to me. I'll always remember you as you were
that day of our last barbecue, sitting under an oak with a dozen
boys around you. I can even tell you just how you were dressed, in
a white dress covered with tiny green flowers and a white lace
shawl about your shoulders. You had on little green slippers with
black lacings and an enormous leghorn hat with long green
streamers. I know that dress by heart because when I was in prison
and things got too bad, I'd take out my memories and thumb them
over like pictures, recalling every little detail--"

He stopped abruptly and the eager light faded from his face. He
dropped her hands gently and she sat waiting, waiting for his next
words.

"We've come a long way, both of us, since that day, haven't we,
Scarlett? We've traveled roads we never expected to travel.
You've come swiftly, directly, and I, slowly and reluctantly."

He sat down on the table again and looked at her and a small smile
crept back into his face. But it was not the smile that had made
her so happy so short a while before. It was a bleak smile.

"Yes, you came swiftly, dragging me at your chariot wheels.
Scarlett, sometimes I have an impersonal curiosity as to what would
have happened to me without you."

Scarlett went quickly to defend him from himself, more quickly
because treacherously there rose to her mind Rhett's words on this
same subject.

"But I've never done anything for you, Ashley. Without me, you'd
have been just the same. Some day, you'd have been a rich man, a
great man like you are going to be."

"No, Scarlett, the seeds of greatness were never in me. I think
that if it hadn't been for you, I'd have gone down into oblivion--
like poor Cathleen Calvert and so many other people who once had
great names, old names."

"Oh, Ashley, don't talk like that. You sound so sad."

"No, I'm not sad. Not any longer. Once--once I was sad. Now, I'm
only--"

He stopped and suddenly she knew what he was thinking. It was the
first time she had ever known what Ashley was thinking when his
eyes went past her, crystal clear, absent. When the fury of love
had beaten in her heart, his mind had been closed to her. Now, in
the quiet friendliness that lay between them, she could walk a
little way into his mind, understand a little. He was not sad any
longer. He had been sad after the surrender, sad when she begged
him to come to Atlanta. Now, he was only resigned.

"I hate to hear you talk like that, Ashley," she said vehemently.
"You sound just like Rhett. He's always harping on things like
that and something he calls the survival of the fitting till I'm so
bored I could scream."

Ashley smiled.

"Did you ever stop to think, Scarlett, that Rhett and I are
fundamentally alike?"

"Oh, no! You are so fine, so honorable and he--" She broke off,
confused.

"But we are. We came of the same kind of people, we were raised in
the same pattern, brought up to think the same things. And
somewhere along the road we took different turnings. We still
think alike but we react differently. As, for instance, neither of
us believed in the war but I enlisted and fought and he stayed out
till nearly the end. We both knew the war was all wrong. We both
knew it was a losing fight. I was willing to fight a losing fight.
He wasn't. Sometimes I think he was right and then, again--"

"Oh, Ashley, when will you stop seeing both sides of questions?"
she asked. But she did not speak impatiently as she once would
have done. "No one ever gets anywhere seeing both sides."

"That's true but--Scarlett, just where do you want to get? I've
often wondered. You see, I never wanted to get anywhere at all.
I've only wanted to be myself."

Where did she want to get? That was a silly question. Money and
security, of course. And yet-- Her mind fumbled. She had money
and as much security as one could hope for in an insecure world.
But, now that she thought about it, they weren't quite enough. Now
that she thought about it, they hadn't made her particularly happy,
though they made her less harried, less fearful of the morrow. If
I'd had money and security and you, that would have been where I
wanted to get, she thought, looking at him yearningly. But she did
not speak the words, fearful of breaking the spell that lay between
them, fearful that his mind would close against her.

"You only want to be yourself?" she laughed, a little ruefully.
"Not being myself has always been my hardest trouble! As to where
I want to get, well, I guess I've gotten there. I wanted to be
rich and safe and--"

"But, Scarlett, did it ever occur to you that I don't care whether
I'm rich or not?"

No, it had never occurred to her that anyone would not want to be
rich.

"Then, what do you want?"

"I don't know, now. I knew once but I've half forgotten. Mostly
to be left alone, not to be harried by people I don't like, driven
to do things I don't want to do. Perhaps--I want the old days back
again and they'll never come back, and I am haunted by the memory
of them and of the world falling about my ears."

Scarlett set her mouth obstinately. It was not that she did not
know what he meant. The very tones of his voice called up other
days as nothing else could, made her heart hurt suddenly, as she
too remembered. But since the day she had lain sick and desolate
in the garden at Twelve Oaks and said: "I won't look back," she
had set her face against the past.

"I like these days better," she said. But she did not meet his
eyes as she spoke. "There's always something exciting happening
now, parties and so on. Everything's got a glitter to it. The old
days were so dull." (Oh, lazy days and warm still country
twilights! The high soft laughter from the quarters! The golden
warmth life had then and the comforting knowledge of what all
tomorrows would bring! How can I deny you?)

"I like these days better," she said but her voice was tremulous.

He slipped from the table, laughing softly in unbelief. Putting
his hand under her chin, he turned her face up to his.

"Ah, Scarlett, what a poor liar you are! Yes, life has a glitter
now--of a sort. That's what's wrong with it. The old days had no
glitter but they had a charm, a beauty, a slow-paced glamour."

Her mind pulled two ways, she dropped her eyes. The sound of his
voice, the touch of his hand were softly unlocking doors that she
had locked forever. Behind those doors lay the beauty of the old
days, and a sad hunger for them welled up within her. But she knew
that no matter what beauty lay behind, it must remain there. No
one could go forward with a load of aching memories.

His hand dropped from her chin and he took one of her hands between
his two and held it gently.

"Do you remember," he said--and a warning bell in her mind rang:
Don't look back! Don't look back!

But she swiftly disregarded it, swept forward on a tide of
happiness. At last she was understanding him, at last their minds
had met. This moment was too precious to be lost, no matter what
pain came after.

"Do you remember," he said and under the spell of his voice the
bare walls of the little office faded and the years rolled aside
and they were riding country bridle paths together in a long-gone
spring. As he spoke, his light grip tightened on her hand and in
his voice was the sad magic of old half-forgotten songs. She could
hear the gay jingle of bridle bits as they rode under the dogwood
trees to the Tarletons' picnic, hear her own careless laughter, see
the sun glinting on his silver-gilt hair and note the proud easy
grace with which he sat his horse. There was music in his voice,
the music of fiddles and banjos to which they had danced in the
white house that was no more. There was the far-off yelping of
possum dogs in the dark swamp under cool autumn moons and the smell
of eggnog bowls, wreathed with holly at Christmas time and smiles
on black and white faces. And old friends came trooping back,
laughing as though they had not been dead these many years: Stuart
and Brent with their long legs and their red hair and their
practical jokes, Tom and Boyd as wild as young horses, Joe Fontaine
with his hot black eyes, and Cade and Raiford Calvert who moved
with such languid grace. There was John Wilkes, too; and Gerald,
red with brandy; and a whisper and a fragrance that was Ellen.
Over it all rested a sense of security, a knowledge that tomorrow
could only bring the same happiness today had brought.

His voice stopped and they looked for a long quiet moment into each
other's eyes and between them lay the sunny lost youth that they
had so unthinkingly shared.

"Now I know why you can't be happy," she thought sadly. "I never
understood before. I never understood before why I wasn't
altogether happy either. But--why, we are talking like old people
talk!" she thought with dreary surprise. "Old people looking back
fifty years. And we're not old! It's just that so much has
happened in between. Everything's changed so much that it seems
like fifty years ago. But we're not old!"

But when she looked at Ashley he was no longer young and shining.
His head was bowed as he looked down absently at her hand which he
still held and she saw that his once bright hair was very gray,
silver gray as moonlight on still water. Somehow the bright beauty
had gone from the April afternoon and from her heart as well and
the sad sweetness of remembering was as bitter as gall.

"I shouldn't have let him make me look back," she thought
despairingly. "I was right when I said I'd never look back. It
hurts too much, it drags at your heart till you can't ever do
anything else except look back. That's what's wrong with Ashley.
He can't look forward any more. He can't see the present, he fears
the future, and so he looks back. I never understood it before. I
never understood Ashley before. Oh, Ashley, my darling, you
shouldn't look back! What good will it do? I shouldn't have let
you tempt me into talking of the old days. This is what happens
when you look back to happiness, this pain, this heartbreak, this
discontent."

She rose to her feet, her hand still in his. She must go. She
could not stay and think of the old days and see his face, tired
and sad and bleak as it now was.

"We've come a long way since those days, Ashley," she said, trying
to steady her voice, trying to fight the constriction in her
throat. "We had fine notions then, didn't we?" And then, with a
rush, "Oh, Ashley, nothing has turned out as we expected!"

"It never does," he said. "Life's under no obligation to give us
what we expect. We take what we get and are thankful it's no worse
than it is."

Her heart was suddenly dull with pain, with weariness, as she
thought of the long road she had come since those days. There rose
up in her mind the memory of Scarlett O'Hara who loved beaux and
pretty dresses and who intended, some day, when she had the time,
to be a great lady like Ellen.

Without warning, tears started in her eyes and rolled slowly down
her cheeks and she stood looking at him dumbly, like a hurt
bewildered child. He said no word but took her gently in his arms,
pressed her head against his shoulder and, leaning down, laid his
cheek against hers. She relaxed against him and her arms went
round his body. The comfort of his arms helped dry her sudden
tears. Ah, it was good to be in his arms, without passion, without
tenseness, to be there as a loved friend. Only Ashley who shared
her memories and her youth, who knew her beginnings and her present
could understand.

She heard the sound of feet outside but paid little heed, thinking
it was the teamsters going home. She stood for a moment, listening
to the slow beat of Ashley's heart. Then suddenly he wrenched
himself from her, confusing her by his violence. She looked up
into his face in surprise but he was not looking at her. He was
looking over her shoulder at the door.

She turned and there stood India, white faced, her pale eyes
blazing, and Archie, malevolent as a one-eyed parrot. Behind them
stood Mrs. Elsing.



How she got out of the office she never remembered. But she went
instantly, swiftly, by Ashley's order, leaving Ashley and Archie in
grim converse in the little room and India and Mrs. Elsing outside
with their backs to her. Shame and fear sped her homeward and, in
her mind, Archie with his patriarch's beard assumed the proportions
of an avenging angel straight from the pages of the Old Testament.

The house was empty and still in the April sunset. All the
servants had gone to a funeral and the children were playing in
Melanie's back yard. Melanie--

Melanie! Scarlett went cold at the thought of her as she climbed
the stairs to her room. Melanie would hear of this. India had
said she would tell her. Oh, India would glory in telling her, not
caring if she blackened Ashley's name, not caring if she hurt
Melanie, if by so doing she could injure Scarlett! And Mrs. Elsing
would talk too, even though she had really seen nothing, because
she was behind India and Archie in the door of the lumber office.
But she would talk, just the same. The news would be all over town
by supper time. Everyone, even the negroes, would know by
tomorrow's breakfast. At the party tonight, women would gather in
corners and whisper discreetly and with malicious pleasure.
Scarlett Butler tumbled from her high and mighty place! And the
story would grow and grow. There was no way of stopping it. It
wouldn't stop at the bare facts, that Ashley was holding her in his
arms while she cried. Before nightfall people would be saying she
had been taken in adultery. And it had been so innocent, so sweet!
Scarlett thought wildly: If we had been caught that Christmas of
his furlough when I kissed him good-by--if we had been caught in
the orchard at Tara when I begged him to run away with me--oh, if
we'd been caught any of the times when we were really guilty, it
wouldn't be so bad! But now! Now! When I went to his arms as a
friend--

But no one would believe that. She wouldn't have a single friend
to take her part, not a single voice would be raised to say: "I
don't believe she was doing anything wrong." She had outraged old
friends too long to find a champion among them now. Her new
friends, suffering in silence under her insolences, would welcome a
chance to blackguard her. No, everybody would believe anything
about her, though they might regret that so fine a man as Ashley
Wilkes was mixed up in so dirty an affair. As usual they would
cast the blame upon the woman and shrug at the man's guilt. And in
this case they would be right. She had gone into his arms.

Oh, she could stand the cuts, the slights, the covert smiles,
anything the town might say, if she had to stand them--but not
Melanie! Oh, not Melanie! She did not know why she should mind
Melanie knowing, more than anyone else. She was too frightened and
weighed down by a sense of past guilt to try to understand it. But
she burst into tears at the thought of what would be in Melanie's
eyes when India told her that she had caught Ashley fondling
Scarlett. And what would Melanie do when she knew? Leave Ashley?
What else could she do, with any dignity? And what will Ashley and
I do then? she thought frenziedly, the tears streaming down her
face. Oh, Ashley will die of shame and hate me for bringing this
on him. Suddenly her tears stopped short as a deadly fear went
through her heart. What of Rhett? What would he do?

Perhaps he'd never know. What was that old saying, that cynical
saying? "The husband is always the last to find out." Perhaps no
one would tell him. It would take a brave man to break such news
to Rhett, for Rhett had the reputation for shooting first and
asking questions afterwards. Please, God, don't let anybody be
brave enough to tell him! But she remembered the face of Archie in
the lumber office, the cold, pale eye, remorseless, full of hate
for her and all women. Archie feared neither God nor man and he
hated loose women. He had hated them enough to kill one. And he
had said he would tell Rhett. And he'd tell him in spite of all
Ashley could do to dissuade him. Unless Ashley killed him, Archie
would tell Rhett, feeling it his Christian duty.

She pulled off her clothes and lay down on the bed, her mind
whirling round and round. If she could only lock her door and stay
in this safe place forever and ever and never see anyone again.
Perhaps Rhett wouldn't find out tonight. She'd say she had a
headache and didn't feel like going to the reception. By morning
she would have thought up some excuse to offer, some defense that
might hold water.

"I won't think of it now," she said desperately, burying her face
in the pillow. "I won't think of it now. I'll think of it later
when I can stand it."

She heard the servants come back as night fell and it seemed to her
that they were very silent as they moved about preparing supper.
Or was it her guilty conscience? Mammy came to the door and
knocked but Scarlett sent her away, saying she did not want any
supper. Time passed and finally she heard Rhett coming up the
steps. She held herself tensely as he reached the upper hall,
gathered all her strength for a meeting but he passed into his
room. She breathed easier. He hadn't heard. Thank God, he still
respected her icy request that he never put foot in her bedroom
again, for if he saw her now, her face would give her away. She
must gather herself together enough to tell him that she felt too
ill to go to the reception. Well, there was time enough for her to
calm herself. Or was there time? Since the awful moment that
afternoon, life had seemed timeless. She heard Rhett moving about
in his room for a long time, speaking occasionally to Pork. Still
she could not find courage to call to him. She lay still on the
bed in the darkness, shaking.

After a long time, he knocked on her door and she said, trying to
control her voice: "Come in."

"Am I actually being invited into the sanctuary?" he questioned,
opening the door. It was dark and she could not see his face. Nor
could she make anything of his voice. He entered and closed the
door.

"Are you ready for the reception?"

"I'm so sorry but I have a headache." How odd that her voice
sounded natural! Thank God for the dark! "I don't believe I'll
go. You go, Rhett, and give Melanie my regrets."

There was a long pause and he spoke drawlingly, bitingly in the
dark.

"What a white livered, cowardly little bitch you are."

He knew! She lay shaking, unable to speak. She heard him fumble
in the dark, strike a match and the room sprang into light. He
walked over to the bed and looked down at her. She saw that he was
in evening clothes.

"Get up," he said and there was nothing in his voice. "We are
going to the reception. You will have to hurry."

"Oh, Rhett, I can't. You see--"

"I can see. Get up."

"Rhett, did Archie dare--"

"Archie dared. A very brave man, Archie."

"You should have killed him for telling lies--"

"I have a strange way of not killing people who tell the truth.
There's no time to argue now. Get up."

She sat up, hugging her wrapper close to her, her eyes searching
his face. It was dark and impassive.

"I won't go, Rhett. I can't until this--misunderstanding is
cleared up."

"If you don't show your face tonight, you'll never be able to show
it in this town as long as you live. And while I may endure a
trollop for a wife, I won't endure a coward. You are going
tonight, even if everyone, from Alex Stephens down, cuts you and
Mrs. Wilkes asks us to leave the house."

"Rhett, let me explain."

"I don't want to hear. There isn't time. Get on your clothes."

"They misunderstood--India and Mrs. Elsing and Archie. And they
hate me so. India hates me so much that she'd even tell lies about
her own brother to make me appear in a bad light. If you'll only
let me explain--"

Oh, Mother of God, she thought in agony, suppose he says: "Pray do
explain!" What can I say? How can I explain?

"They'll have told everybody lies. I can't go tonight."

"You will go," he said, "if I have to drag you by the neck and
plant my boot on your ever so charming bottom every step of the
way."

There was a cold glitter in his eyes as he jerked her to her feet.
He picked up her stays and threw them at her.

"Put them on. I'll lace you. Oh yes, I know all about lacing.
No, I won't call Mammy to help you and have you lock the door and
skulk here like the coward you are."

"I'm not a coward," she cried, stung out of her fear. "I--"

"Oh, spare me your saga about shooting Yankees and facing Sherman's
army. You're a coward--among other things. If not for your own
sake, you are going tonight for Bonnie's sake. How could you
further ruin her chances? Put on your stays, quick."

Hastily she slipped off her wrapper and stood clad only in her
chemise. If only he would look at her and see how nice she looked
in her chemise, perhaps that frightening look would leave his face.
After all, he hadn't seen her in her chemise for ever and ever so
long. But he did not look. He was in her closet, going through
her dresses swiftly. He fumbled and drew out her new jade-green
watered-silk dress. It was cut low over the bosom and the skirt
was draped back over an enormous bustle and on the bustle was a
huge bunch of pink velvet roses.

"Wear that," he said, tossing it on the bed and coming toward her.
"No modest, matronly dove grays and lilacs tonight. Your flag must
be nailed to the mast, for obviously you'd run it down if it
wasn't. And plenty of rouge. I'm sure the woman the Pharisees
took in adultery didn't look half so pale. Turn around."

He took the strings of the stays in his hands and jerked them so
hard that she cried out, frightened, humiliated, embarrassed at
such an untoward performance.

"Hurts, does it?" He laughed shortly and she could not see his
face. "Pity it isn't around your neck."

Melanie's house blazed lights from every room and they could hear
the music far up the street. As they drew up in front, the
pleasant exciting sounds of many people enjoying themselves floated
out. The house was packed with guests. They overflowed on
verandas and many were sitting on benches in the dim lantern-hung
yard.

I can't go in--I can't, thought Scarlett, sitting in the carriage,
gripping her balled-up handkerchief. I can't. I won't. I will
jump out and run away, somewhere, back home to Tara. Why did Rhett
force me to come here? What will people do? What will Melanie do?
What will she look like? Oh, I can't face her. I will run away.

As though he read her mind, Rhett's hand closed upon her arm in a
grip that would leave a bruise, the rough grip of a careless
stranger.

"I've never known an Irishman to be a coward. Where's your much-
vaunted courage?"

"Rhett, do please, let me go home and explain."

"You have eternity in which to explain and only one night to be a
martyr in the amphitheater. Get out, darling, and let me see the
lions eat you. Get out."

She went up the walk somehow, the arm she was holding as hard and
steady as granite, communicating to her some courage. By God, she
could face them and she would. What were they but a bunch of
howling, clawing cats who were jealous of her? She'd show them.
She didn't care what they thought. Only Melanie--only Melanie.

They were on the porch and Rhett was bowing right and left, his hat
in his hand, his voice cool and soft. The music stopped as they
entered and the crowd of people seemed to her confused mind to
surge up to her like the roar of the sea and then ebb away, with
lessening, ever-lessening sound. Was everyone going to cut her?
Well, God's nightgown, let them do it! Her chin went up and she
smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

Before she could turn to speak to those nearest the door, someone
came through the press of people. There was an odd hush that
caught Scarlett's heart. Then through the lane came Melanie on
small feet that hurried, hurried to meet Scarlett at the door, to
speak to her before anyone else could speak. Her narrow shoulders
were squared and her small jaw set indignantly and, for all her
notice, she might have had no other guest but Scarlett. She went
to her side and slipped an arm about her waist.

"What a lovely dress, darling," she said in her small, clear voice.
"Will you be an angel? India was unable to come tonight and assist
me. Will you receive with me?"



CHAPTER LIV


Safe in her room again, Scarlett fell on the bed, careless of her
moire dress, bustle and roses. For a time she could only lie still
and think of standing between Melanie and Ashley, greeting guests.
What a horror! She would face Sherman's army again rather than
repeat that performance! After a time, she rose from the bed and
nervously paced the floor, shedding garments as she walked.

Reaction from strain set in and she began to shake. Hairpins
slipped out of her fingers and tinkled to the floor and when she
tried to give her hair its customary hundred strokes, she banged
the back of the brush hurtingly against her temple. A dozen times
she tiptoed to the door to listen for noises downstairs but the
hall below lay like a black silent pit.

Rhett had sent her home alone in the carriage when the party was
over and she had thanked God for the reprieve. He had not come in
yet. Thank God, he had not come in. She could not face him
tonight, shamed, frightened, shaking. But where was he? Probably
at that creature's place. For the first time, Scarlett was glad
there was such a person as Belle Watling. Glad there was some
other place than this house to shelter Rhett until his glittering,
murderous mood had passed. That was wrong, being glad a husband
was at the house of a prostitute, but she could not help it. She
would be almost glad if he were dead, if it meant she would not
have to see him tonight.

Tomorrow--well, tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow she would think
of some excuse, some counter accusations, some way of putting Rhett
in the wrong. Tomorrow the memory of this hideous night would not
be driving her so fiercely that she shook. Tomorrow she would not
be so haunted by the memory of Ashley's face, his broken pride and
his shame--shame that she had caused, shame in which he had so
little part. Would he hate her now, her darling honorable Ashley,
because she had shamed him? Of course he would hate her now--now
that they had both been saved by the indignant squaring of
Melanie's thin shoulders and the love and outspoken trust which had
been in her voice as she crossed the glassy floor to slip her arm
through Scarlett's and face the curious, malicious, covertly
hostile crowd. How neatly Melanie had scotched the scandal,
keeping Scarlett at her side all through the dreadful evening!
People had been a bit cool, somewhat bewildered, but they had been
polite.

Oh, the ignominy of it all, to be sheltered behind Melanie's skirts
from those who hated her, who would have torn her to bits with
their whispers! To be sheltered by Melanie's blind trust, Melanie
of all people!

Scarlett shook as with a chill at the thought. She must have a
drink, a number of drinks before she could lie down and hope to
sleep. She threw a wrapper about her gown and went hastily out
into the dark hall, her backless slippers making a great clatter in
the stillness. She was halfway down the stairs before she looked
toward the closed door of the dining room and saw a narrow line of
light streaming from under it. Her heart stopped for a moment.
Had that light been burning when she came home and had she been too
upset to notice it? Or was Rhett home after all? He could have
come in quietly through the kitchen door. If Rhett were home, she
would tiptoe back to bed without her brandy, much as she needed it.
Then she wouldn't have to face him. Once in her room she would be
safe, for she could lock the door.

She was leaning over to pluck off her slippers, so she might hurry
back in silence, when the dining-room door swung open abruptly and
Rhett stood silhouetted against the dim candlelight behind him. He
looked huge, larger than she had ever seen him, a terrifying
faceless black bulk that swayed slightly on its feet.

"Pray join me, Mrs. Butler," he said and his voice was a little
thick.

He was drunk and showing it and she had never before seen him show
his liquor, no matter how much he drank. She paused irresolutely,
saying nothing and his arm went up in gesture of command.

"Come here, damn you!" he said roughly.

He must be very drunk, she thought with a fluttering heart.
Usually, the more he drank, the more polished became his manners.
He sneered more, his words were apt to be more biting, but the
manner that accompanied them was always punctilious--too
punctilious.

"I must never let him know I'm afraid to face him," she thought,
and, clutching the wrapper closer to her throat, she went down the
stairs with her head up and her heels clacking noisily.

He stood aside and bowed her through the door with a mockery that
made her wince. She saw that he was coatless and his cravat hung
down on either side of his open collar. His shirt was open down to
the thick mat of black hair on his chest. His hair was rumpled and
his eyes bloodshot and narrow. One candle burned on the table, a
tiny spark of light that threw monstrous shadows about the high-
ceilinged room and made the massive sideboards and buffet look like
still, crouching beasts. On the table on the silver tray stood the
decanter with cut-glass stopper out, surrounded by glasses.

"Sit down," he said curtly, following her into the room.

Now a new kind of fear crept into her, a fear that made her alarm
at facing him seem very small. He looked and talked and acted like
a stranger. This was an ill-mannered Rhett she had never seen
before. Never at any time, even in most intimate moments, had he
been other than nonchalant. Even in anger, he was suave and
satirical, and whisky usually served to intensify these qualities.
At first it had annoyed her and she had tried to break down that
nonchalance but soon she had come to accept it as a very convenient
thing. For years she had thought that nothing mattered very much
to him, that he thought everything in life, including her, an
ironic joke. But as she faced him across the table, she knew with
a sinking feeling in her stomach that at last something was
mattering to him, mattering very much.

"There is no reason why you should not have your nightcap, even if
I am ill bred enough to be at home," he said. "Shall I pour it for
you?"

"I did not want a drink," she said stiffly. "I heard a noise and
came--"

"You heard nothing. You wouldn't have come down if you'd thought I
was home. I've sat here and listened to you racing up and down the
floor upstairs. You must need a drink badly. Take it."

"I do not--"

He picked up the decanter and sloshed a glassful, untidily.

"Take it," he said, shoving it into her hand. "You are shaking all
over. Oh, don't give yourself airs. I know you drink on the quiet
and I know how much you drink. For some time I've been intending
to tell you to stop your elaborate pretenses and drink openly if
you want to. Do you think I give a damn if you like your brandy?"

She took the wet glass, silently cursing him. He read her like a
book. He had always read her and he was the one man in the world
from whom she would like to hide her real thoughts.

"Drink it, I say."

She raised the glass and bolted the contents with one abrupt motion
of her arm, wrist stiff, just as Gerald had always taken his neat
whisky, bolted it before she thought how practiced and unbecoming
it looked. He did not miss the gesture and his mouth went down at
the corner.

"Sit down and we will have a pleasant domestic discussion of the
elegant reception we have just attended."

"You are drunk," she said coldly, "and I am going to bed."

"I am very drunk and I intend to get still drunker before the
evening's over. But you aren't going to bed--not yet. Sit down."

His voice still held a remnant of its wonted cool drawl but beneath
the words she could feel violence fighting its way to the surface,
violence as cruel as the crack of a whip. She wavered irresolutely
and he was at her side, his hand on her arm in a grip that hurt.
He gave it a slight wrench and she hastily sat down with a little
cry of pain. Now, she was afraid, more afraid than she had ever
been in her life. As he leaned over her, she saw that his face was
dark and flushed and his eyes still held their frightening glitter.
There was something in their depths she did not recognize, could
not understand, something deeper than anger, stronger than pain,
something driving him until his eyes glowed redly like twin coals.
He looked down at her for a long time, so long that her defiant
gaze wavered and fell, and then he slumped into a chair opposite
her and poured himself another drink. She thought rapidly, trying
to lay a line of defenses. But until he spoke, she would not know
what to say for she did not know exactly what accusation he
intended to make.

He drank slowly, watching her over the glass and she tightened her
nerves, trying to keep from trembling. For a time his face did not
change its expression but finally he laughed, still keeping his
eyes on her, and at the sound she could not still her shaking.

"It was an amusing comedy, this evening, wasn't it?"

She said nothing, curling her toes in the loose slippers in an
effort at controlling her quivering.

"A pleasant comedy with no character missing. The village assembled
to stone the erring woman, the wronged husband supporting his wife
as a gentleman should, the wronged wife stepping in with Christian
spirit and casting the garments of her spotless reputation over it
all. And the lover--"

"Please."

"I don't please. Not tonight. It's too amusing. And the lover
looking like a damned fool and wishing he were dead. How does it
feel, my dear, to have the woman you hate stand by you and cloak
your sins for you? Sit down."

She sat down.

"You don't like her any better for it, I imagine. You are
wondering if she knows all about you and Ashley--wondering why she
did this if she does know--if she just did it to save her own face.
And you are thinking she's a fool for doing it, even if it did save
your hide but--"

"I will not listen--"

"Yes, you will listen. And I'll tell you this to ease your worry.
Miss Melly is a fool but not the kind you think. It was obvious
that someone had told her but she didn't believe it. Even if she
saw, she wouldn't believe. There's too much honor in her to
conceive of dishonor in anyone she loves. I don't know what lie
Ashley Wilkes told her--but any clumsy one would do, for she loves
Ashley and she loves you. I'm sure I can't see why she loves you
but she does. Let that be one of your crosses."

"If you were not so drunk and insulting, I would explain
everything," said Scarlett, recovering some dignity. "But now--"

"I am not interested in your explanations. I know the truth better
than you do. By God, if you get up out of that chair just once
more--

"And what I find more amusing than even tonight's comedy is the
fact that while you have been so virtuously denying me the
pleasures of your bed because of my many sins, you have been
lusting in your heart after Ashley Wilkes. 'Lusting in your
heart.' That's a good phrase, isn't it? There are a number of
good phrases in that Book, aren't there?"

"What book? What book?" her mind ran on, foolishly, irrelevantly
as she cast frantic eyes about the room, noting how dully the
massive silver gleamed in the dim light, how frighteningly dark the
corners were.

"And I was cast out because my coarse ardors were too much for your
refinement--because you didn't want any more children. How bad
that made me feel, dear heart! How it cut me! So I went out and
found pleasant consolation and left you to your refinements. And
you spent that time tracking the long-suffering Mr. Wilkes. God
damn him, what ails him? He can't be faithful to his wife with his
mind or unfaithful with his body. Why doesn't he make up his mind?
You wouldn't object to having his children, would you--and passing
them off as mine?"

She sprang to her feet with a cry and he lunged from his seat,
laughing that soft laugh that made her blood cold. He pressed her
back into her chair with large brown hands and leaned over her.

"Observe my hands, my dear," he said, flexing them before her eyes.
"I could tear you to pieces with them with no trouble whatsoever
and I would do it if it would take Ashley out of your mind. But it
wouldn't. So I think I'll remove him from your mind forever, this
way. I'll put my hands, so, on each side of your head and I'll
smash your skull between them like a walnut and that will blot him
out."

His hands were on her head, under her flowing hair, caressing,
hard, turning her face up to his. She was looking into the face of
a stranger, a drunken drawling-voiced stranger. She had never
lacked animal courage and in the face of danger it flooded back
hotly into her veins, stiffening her spine, narrowing her eyes.

"You drunken fool," she said. "Take your hands off me."

To her surprise, he did so and seating himself on the edge of the
table he poured himself another drink.

"I have always admired your spirit, my dear. Never more than now
when you are cornered."

She drew her wrapper close about her body. Oh, if she could only
reach her room and turn the key in the stout door and be alone.
Somehow, she must stand him off, bully him into submission, this
Rhett she had never seen before. She rose without haste, though
her knees shook, tightened the wrapper across her hips and threw
back her hair from her face.

"I'm not cornered," she said cuttingly. "You'll never corner me,
Rhett Butler, or frighten me. You are nothing but a drunken beast
who's been with bad women so long that you can't understand
anything else but badness. You can't understand Ashley or me.
You've lived in dirt too long to know anything else. You are
jealous of something you can't understand. Good night."

She turned casually and started toward the door and a burst of
laughter stopped her. She turned and he swayed across the room
toward her. Name of God, if he would only stop that terrible
laugh! What was there to laugh about in all of this? As he came
toward her, she backed toward the door and found herself against
the wall. He put his hands heavily upon her and pinned her
shoulders to the wall.

"Stop laughing."

"I am laughing because I am so sorry for you."

"Sorry--for me? Be sorry for yourself."

"Yes, by God, I'm sorry for you, my dear, my pretty little fool.
That hurts, doesn't it? You can't stand either laughter or pity,
can you?"

He stopped laughing, leaning so heavily against her shoulders that
they ached. His face changed and he leaned so close to her that
the heavy whisky smell of his breath made her turn her head.

"Jealous, am I?" he said. "And why not? Oh, yes, I'm jealous of
Ashley Wilkes. Why not? Oh, don't try to talk and explain. I
know you've been physically faithful to me. Was that what you were
trying to say? Oh, I've known that all along. All these years.
How do I know? Oh, well, I know Ashley Wilkes and his breed. I
know he is honorable and a gentleman. And that, my dear, is more
than I can say for you--or for me, for that matter. We are not
gentlemen and we have no honor, have we? That's why we flourish
like green bay trees."

"Let me go. I won't stand here and be insulted."

"I'm not insulting you. I'm praising your physical virtue. And it
hasn't fooled me one bit. You think men are such fools, Scarlett.
It never pays to underestimate your opponent's strength and
intelligence. And I'm not a fool. Don't you suppose I know that
you've lain in my arms and pretended I was Ashley Wilkes?"

Her jaw dropped and fear and astonishment were written plainly in
her face.

"Pleasant thing, that. Rather ghostly, in fact. Like having three
in a bed where there ought to be just two." He shook her
shoulders, ever so slightly, hiccoughed and smiled mockingly.

"Oh, yes, you've been faithful to me because Ashley wouldn't have
you. But, hell, I wouldn't have grudged him your body. I know how
little bodies mean--especially women's bodies. But I do grudge him
your heart and your dear, hard, unscrupulous, stubborn mind. He
doesn't want your mind, the fool, and I don't want your body. I
can buy women cheap. But I do want your mind and your heart, and
I'll never have them, any more than you'll ever have Ashley's mind.
And that's why I'm sorry for you."

Even through her fear and bewilderment, his sneer stung.

"Sorry--for me?"

"Yes, sorry because you're such a child, Scarlett. A child crying
for the moon. What would a child do with the moon if it got it?
And what would you do with Ashley? Yes, I'm sorry for you--sorry
to see you throwing away happiness with both hands and reaching out
for something that would never make you happy. I'm sorry because
you are such a fool you don't know there can't ever be happiness
except when like mates like. If I were dead, if Miss Melly were
dead and you had your precious honorable lover, do you think you'd
be happy with him? Hell, no! You would never know him, never know
what he was thinking about, never understand him any more than you
understand music and poetry and books or anything that isn't
dollars and cents. Whereas, we, dear wife of my bosom, could have
been perfectly happy if you had ever given us half a chance, for we
are so much alike. We are both scoundrels, Scarlett, and nothing
is beyond us when we want something. We could have been happy, for
I loved you and I know you, Scarlett, down to your bones, in a way
that Ashley could never know you. And he would despise you if he
did know. . . . But no, you must go mooning all your life after a
man you cannot understand. And I, my darling, will continue to
moon after whores. And, I dare say we'll do better than most
couples."

He released her abruptly and made a weaving way back toward the
decanter. For a moment, Scarlett stood rooted, thoughts tearing in
and out of her mind so swiftly that she could seize none of them
long enough to examine them. Rhett had said he loved her. Did he
mean it? Or was he merely drunk? Or was this one of his horrible
jokes? And Ashley--the moon--crying for the moon. She ran swiftly
into the dark hall, fleeing as though demons were upon her. Oh, if
she could only reach her room! She turned her ankle and the slipper
fell half off. As she stopped to kick it loose frantically, Rhett,
running lightly as an Indian, was beside her in the dark. His
breath was not on her face and his hands went round her roughly,
under the wrapper, against her bare skin.

"You turned me out on the town while you chased him. By God, this
is one night when there are only going to be two in my bed."

He swung her off her feet into his arms and started up the stairs.
Her head was crushed against his chest and she heard the hard
hammering of his heart beneath her ears. He hurt her and she cried
out, muffled, frightened. Up the stairs he went in the utter
darkness, up, up, and she was wild with fear. He was a mad
stranger and this was a black darkness she did not know, darker
than death. He was like death, carrying her away in arms that
hurt. She screamed, stifled against him and he stopped suddenly on
the landing and, turning her swiftly in his arms, bent over and
kissed her with a savagery and a completeness that wiped out
everything from her mind but the dark into which she was sinking
and the lips on hers. He was shaking, as though he stood in a
strong wind, and his lips, traveling from her mouth downward to
where the wrapper had fallen from her body, fell on her soft flesh.
He was muttering things she did not hear, his lips were evoking
feelings never felt before. She was darkness and he was darkness
and there had never been anything before this time, only darkness
and his lips upon her. She tried to speak and his mouth was over
hers again. Suddenly she had a wild thrill such as she had never
known; joy, fear, madness, excitement, surrender to arms that were
too strong, lips too bruising, fate that moved too fast. For the
first time in her life she had met someone, something stronger than
she, someone she could neither bully nor break, someone who was
bullying and breaking her. Somehow, her arms were around his neck
and her lips trembling beneath his and they were going up, up into
the darkness again, a darkness that was soft and swirling and all
enveloping.



When she awoke the next morning, he was gone and had it not been
for the rumpled pillow beside her, she would have thought the
happenings of the night before a wild preposterous dream. She went
crimson at the memory and, pulling the bed covers up about her
neck, lay bathed in sunlight, trying to sort out the jumbled
impressions in her mind.

Two things stood to the fore. She had lived for years with Rhett,
slept with him, eaten with him, quarreled with him and borne his
child--and yet, she did not know him. The man who had carried her
up the dark stairs was a stranger of whose existence she had not
dreamed. And now, though she tried to make herself hate him, tried
to be indignant, she could not. He had humbled her, hurt her, used
her brutally through a wild mad night and she had gloried in it.

Oh, she should be ashamed, should shrink from the very memory of
the hot swirling darkness! A lady, a real lady, could never hold
up her head after such a night. But, stronger than shame, was the
memory of rapture, of the ecstasy of surrender. For the first time
in her life she had felt alive, felt passion as sweeping and
primitive as the fear she had known the night she fled Atlanta, as
dizzy sweet as the cold hate when she had shot the Yankee.

Rhett loved her! At least, he said he loved her and how could she
doubt it now? How odd and bewildering and how incredible that he
loved her, this savage stranger with whom she had lived in such
coolness. She was not altogether certain how she felt about this
revelation but as an idea came to her she suddenly laughed aloud.
He loved her and so she had him at last. She had almost forgotten
her early desire to entrap him into loving her, so she could hold
the whip over his insolent black head. Now, it came back and it
gave her great satisfaction. For one night, he had had her at his
mercy but now she knew the weakness of his armor. From now on she
had him where she wanted him. She had smarted under his jeers for
a long time, but now she had him where she could make him jump
through any hoops she cared to hold.

When she thought of meeting him again, face to face in the sober
light of day, a nervous tingling embarrassment that carried with it
an exciting pleasure enveloped her.

"I'm nervous as a bride," she thought. "And about Rhett!" And, at
the idea she fell to giggling foolishly.

But Rhett did not appear for dinner, nor was he at his place at the
supper table. The night passed, a long night during which she lay
awake until dawn, her ears strained to hear his key in the latch.
But he did not come. When the second day passed with no word from
him, she was frantic with disappointment and fear. She went by the
bank but he was not there. She went to the store and was very
sharp with everyone, for every time the door opened to admit a
customer she looked up with a flutter, hoping it was Rhett. She
went to the lumber yard and bullied Hugh until he hid himself
behind a pile of lumber. But Rhett did not seek her there.

She could not humble herself to ask friends if they had seen him.
She could not make inquiries among the servants for news of him.
But she felt they knew something she did not know. Negroes always
knew everything. Mammy was unusually silent those two days. She
watched Scarlett out of the corner of her eye and said nothing.
When the second night had passed Scarlett made up her mind to go to
the police. Perhaps he had had an accident, perhaps his horse had
thrown him and he was lying helpless in some ditch. Perhaps--oh,
horrible thought--perhaps he was dead.

The next morning when she had finished her breakfast and was in her
room putting on her bonnet, she heard swift feet on the stairs. As
she sank to the bed in weak thankfulness, Rhett entered the room.
He was freshly barbered, shaved and massaged and he was sober, but
his eyes were bloodshot and his face puffy from drink. He waved an
airy hand at her and said: "Oh, hello."

How could a man say "Oh, hello," after being gone without
explanation for two days? How could he be so nonchalant with the
memory of such a night as they had spent? He couldn't unless--
unless--the terrible thought leaped into her mind. Unless such
nights were the usual thing to him. For a moment she could not
speak and all the pretty gestures and smiles she had thought to use
upon him were forgotten. He did not even come to her to give her
his usual offhand kiss but stood looking at her, with a grin, a
smoking cigar in his hand.

"Where--where have you been?"

"Don't tell me you don't know! I thought surely the whole town
knew by now. Perhaps they all do, except you. You know the old
adage: 'The wife is always the last one to find out.'"

"What do you mean?"

"I thought that after the police called at Belle's night before
last--"

"Belle's--that--that woman! You have been with--"

"Of course. Where else would I be? I hope you haven't worried
about me."

"You went from me to--oh!"

"Come, come, Scarlett! Don't play the deceived wife. You must
have known about Belle long ago."

"You went to her from me, after--after--"

"Oh, that." He made a careless gesture. "I will forget my
manners. My apologies for my conduct at our last meeting. I was
very drunk, as you doubtless know, and quite swept off my feet by
your charms--need I enumerate them?"

Suddenly she wanted to cry, to lie down on the bed and sob
endlessly. He hadn't changed, nothing had changed, and she had
been a fool, a stupid, conceited, silly fool, thinking he loved
her. It had all been one of his repulsive drunken jests. He had
taken her and used her when he was drunk, just as he would use any
woman in Belle's house. And now he was back, insulting, sardonic,
out of reach. She swallowed her tears and rallied. He must never,
never know what she had thought. How he would laugh if he knew!
Well, he'd never know. She looked up quickly at him and caught
that old, puzzling, watchful glint in his eyes--keen, eager as
though he hung on her next words, hoping they would be--what was he
hoping? That she'd make a fool out of herself and bawl and give
him something to laugh about? Not she! Her slanting brows rushed
together in a cold frown.

"I had naturally suspected what your relations with that creature
were."

"Only suspected? Why didn't you ask me and satisfy your curiosity?
I'd have told you. I've been living with her ever since the day
you and Ashley Wilkes decided that we should have separate
bedrooms."

"You have the gall to stand there and boast to me, your wife, that--"

"Oh, spare me your moral indignation. You never gave a damn what I
did as long as I paid the bills. And you know I've been no angel
recently. And as for you being my wife--you haven't been much of a
wife since Bonnie came, have you? You've been a poor investment,
Scarlett. Belle's been a better one."

"Investment? You mean you gave her--?"

"'Set her up in business' is the correct term, I believe. Belle's
a smart woman. I wanted to see her get ahead and all she needed
was money to start a house of her own. You ought to know what
miracles a woman can perform when she has a bit of cash. Look at
yourself."

"You compare me--"

"Well, you are both hard-headed business women and both successful.
Belle's got the edge on you, of course, because she's a kind-
hearted, good-natured soul--"

"Will you get out of this room?"

He lounged toward the door, one eyebrow raised quizzically. How
could he insult her so, she thought in rage and pain. He was going
out of his way to hurt and humiliate her and she writhed as she
thought how she had longed for his homecoming, while all the time
he was drunk and brawling with police in a bawdy house.

"Get out of this room and don't ever come back in it. I told you
that once before and you weren't enough of a gentleman to
understand. Hereafter I will lock my door."

"Don't bother."

"I will lock it. After the way you acted the other night--so
drunk, so disgusting--"

"Come now, darling! Not disgusting, surely!"

"Get out."

"Don't worry. I'm going. And I promise I'll never bother you
again. That's final. And I just thought I'd tell you that if my
infamous conduct was too much for you to bear, I'll let you have a
divorce. Just give me Bonnie and I won't contest it."

"I would not think of disgracing the family with a divorce."

"You'd disgrace it quick enough if Miss Melly was dead, wouldn't
you? It makes my head spin to think how quickly you'd divorce me."

"Will you go?"

"Yes, I'm going. That's what I came home to tell you. I'm going
to Charleston and New Orleans and--oh, well, a very extended trip.
I'm leaving today."

"Oh!"

"And I'm taking Bonnie with me. Get that foolish Prissy to pack
her little duds. I'll take Prissy too."

"You'll never take my child out of this house."

"My child too, Mrs. Butler. Surely you do not mind me taking her
to Charleston to see her grandmother?"

"Her grandmother, my foot! Do you think I'll let you take that
baby out of here when you'll be drunk every night and most likely
taking her to houses like that Belle's--"

He threw down the cigar violently and it smoked acridly on the
carpet, the smell of scorching wool rising to their nostrils. In
an instant he was across the floor and by her side, his face black
with fury.

"If you were a man, I would break your neck for that. As it is,
all I can say is for you to shut your God-damn mouth. Do you think
I do not love Bonnie, that I would take her where--my daughter!
Good God, you fool! And as for you, giving yourself pious airs
about your motherhood, why, a cat's a better mother than you! What
have you ever done for the children? Wade and Ella are frightened
to death of you and if it wasn't for Melanie Wilkes, they'd never
know what love and affection are. But Bonnie, my Bonnie! Do you
think I can't take better care of her than you? Do you think I'll
ever let you bully her and break her spirit, as you've broken
Wade's and Ella's? Hell, no! Have her packed up and ready for me
in an hour or I warn you what happened the other night will be mild
beside what will happen. I've always thought a good lashing with a
buggy whip would benefit you immensely."

He turned on his heel before she could speak and went out of the
room on swift feet. She heard him cross the floor of the hall to
the children's play room and open the door. There was a glad,
quick treble of childish voices and she heard Bonnie's tones rise
over Ella's.

"Daddy, where you been?"

"Hunting for a rabbit's skin to wrap my little Bonnie in. Give
your best sweetheart a kiss, Bonnie--and you too, Ella."



CHAPTER LV


"Darling, I don't want any explanation from you and I won't listen
to one," said Melanie firmly as she gently laid a small hand across
Scarlett's tortured lips and stilled her words. "You insult
yourself and Ashley and me by even thinking there could be need of
explanations between us. Why, we three have been--have been like
soldiers fighting the world together for so many years that I'm
ashamed of you for thinking idle gossip could come between us. Do
you think I'd believe that you and my Ashley-- Why, the idea!
Don't you realize I know you better than anyone in the world knows
you? Do you think I've forgotten all the wonderful, unselfish
things you've done for Ashley and Beau and me--everything from
saving my life to keeping us from starving! Do you think I could
remember you walking in a furrow behind that Yankee's horse almost
barefooted and with your hands blistered--just so the baby and I
could have something to eat--and then believe such dreadful things
about you? I don't want to hear a word out of you, Scarlett
O'Hara. Not a word."

"But--" Scarlett fumbled and stopped.

Rhett had left town the hour before with Bonnie and Prissy, and
desolation was added to Scarlett's shame and anger. The additional
burden of her guilt with Ashley and Melanie's defense was more than
she could bear. Had Melanie believed India and Archie, cut her at
the reception or even greeted her frigidly, then she could have
held her head high and fought back with every weapon in her armory.
But now, with the memory of Melanie standing between her and social
ruin, standing like a thin, shining blade, with trust and a
fighting light in her eyes, there seemed nothing honest to do but
confess. Yes, blurt out everything from that far-off beginning on
the sunny porch at Tara.

She was driven by a conscience which, though long suppressed, could
still rise up, an active Catholic conscience. "Confess your sins
and do penance for them in sorrow and contrition," Ellen had told
her a hundred times and, in this crisis, Ellen's religious training
came back and gripped her. She would confess--yes, everything,
every look and word, those few caresses--and then God would ease
her pain and give her peace. And, for her penance, there would be
the dreadful sight of Melanie's face changing from fond love and
trust to incredulous horror and repulsion. Oh, that was too hard a
penance, she thought in anguish, to have to live out her life
remembering Melanie's face, knowing that Melanie knew all the
pettiness, the meanness, the two-faced disloyalty and the hypocrisy
that were in her.

Once, the thought of flinging the truth tauntingly in Melanie's
face and seeing the collapse of her fool's paradise had been an
intoxicating one, a gesture worth everything she might lose
thereby. But now, all that had changed overnight and there was
nothing she desired less. Why this should be she did not know.
There was too great a tumult of conflicting ideas in her mind for
her to sort them out. She only knew that as she had once desired
to keep her mother thinking her modest, kind, pure of heart, so she
now passionately desired to keep Melanie's high opinion. She only
knew that she did not care what the world thought of her or what
Ashley or Rhett thought of her, but Melanie must not think her
other than she had always thought her.

She dreaded to tell Melanie the truth but one of her rare honest
instincts arose, an instinct that would not let her masquerade in
false colors before the woman who had fought her battles for her.
So she had hurried to Melanie that morning, as soon as Rhett and
Bonnie had left the house.

But at her first tumbled-out words: "Melly, I must explain about
the other day--" Melanie had imperiously stopped her. Scarlett
looking shamefaced into the dark eyes that were flashing with love
and anger, knew with a sinking heart that the peace and calm
following confession could never be hers. Melanie had forever cut
off that line of action by her first words. With one of the few
adult emotions Scarlett had ever had, she realized that to unburden
her own tortured heart would be the purest selfishness. She would
be ridding herself of her burden and laying it on the heart of an
innocent and trusting person. She owed Melanie a debt for her
championship and that debt could only be paid with silence. What
cruel payment it would be to wreck Melanie's life with the
unwelcome knowledge that her husband was unfaithful to her, and her
beloved friend a party to it!

"I can't tell her," she thought miserably. "Never, not even if my
conscience kills me." She remembered irrelevantly Rhett's drunken
remark: "She can't conceive of dishonor in anyone she loves . . .
let that be your cross."

Yes, it would be her cross, until she died, to keep this torment
silent within her, to wear the hair shirt of shame, to feel it
chafing her at every tender look and gesture Melanie would make
throughout the years, to subdue forever the impulse to cry: "Don't
be so kind! Don't fight for me! I'm not worth it!"

"If you only weren't such a fool, such a sweet, trusting, simple-
minded fool, it wouldn't be so hard," she thought desperately.
"I've toted lots of weary loads but this is going to be the
heaviest and most galling load I've ever toted."

Melanie sat facing her, in a low chair, her feet firmly planted on
an ottoman so high that her knees stuck up like a child's, a
posture she would never have assumed had not rage possessed her to
the point of forgetting proprieties. She held a line of tatting in
her hands and she was driving the shining needle back and forth as
furiously as though handling a rapier in a duel.

Had Scarlett been possessed of such an anger, she would have been
stamping both feet and roaring like Gerald in his finest days,
calling on God to witness the accursed duplicity and knavishness of
mankind and uttering blood-curdling threats of retaliation. But
only by the flashing needle and the delicate brows drawn down
toward her nose did Melanie indicate that she was inwardly
seething. Her voice was cool and her words were more close clipped
than usual. But the forceful words she uttered were foreign to
Melanie who seldom voiced an opinion at all and never an unkind
word. Scarlett realized suddenly that the Wilkeses and the
Hamiltons were capable of furies equal to and surpassing those of
the O'Haras.

"I've gotten mighty tired of hearing people criticize you,
darling," Melanie said, "and this is the last straw and I'm going
to do something about it. All this has happened because people are
jealous of you, because you are so smart and successful. You've
succeeded where lots of men, even, have failed. Now, don't be
vexed with me, dear, for saying that. I don't mean you've ever
been unwomanly or unsexed yourself, as lots of folks have said.
Because you haven't. People just don't understand you and people
can't bear for women to be smart. But your smartness and your
success don't give people the right to say that you and Ashley--
Stars above!"

The soft vehemence of this last ejaculation would have been, upon a
man's lips, profanity of no uncertain meaning. Scarlett stared at
her, alarmed by so unprecedented an outburst.

"And for them to come to me with the filthy lies they'd concocted--
Archie, India, Mrs. Elsing! How did they dare? Of course, Mrs.
Elsing didn't come here. No, indeed, she didn't have the courage.
But she's always hated you, darling, because you were more popular
than Fanny. And she was so incensed at your demoting Hugh from the
management of the mill. But you were quite right in demoting him.
He's just a piddling, do-less, good-for-nothing!" Swiftly Melanie
dismissed the playmate of her childhood and the beau of her teen
years. "I blame myself about Archie. I shouldn't have given the
old scoundrel shelter. Everyone told me so but I wouldn't listen.
He didn't like you, dear, because of the convicts, but who is he to
criticize you? A murderer, and the murderer of a woman, too! And
after all I've done for him, he comes to me and tells me-- I
shouldn't have been a bit sorry if Ashley had shot him. Well, I
packed him off with a large flea in his ear, I can tell you! And
he's left town.

"And as for India, the vile thing! Darling, I couldn't help
noticing from the first time I saw you two together that she was
jealous of you and hated you, because you were so much prettier and
had so many beaux. And she hated you especially about Stuart
Tarleton. And she's brooded about Stuart so much that--well, I
hate to say it about Ashley's sister but I think her mind has
broken with thinking so much! There's no other explanation for her
action. . . . I told her never to put foot in this house again and
that if I heard her breathe so vile an insinuation I would--I would
call her a liar in public!"

Melanie stopped speaking and abruptly the anger left her face and
sorrow swamped it. Melanie had all that passionate clan loyalty
peculiar to Georgians and the thought of a family quarrel tore her
heart. She faltered for a moment. But Scarlett was dearest,
Scarlett came first in her heart, and she went on loyally:

"She's always been jealous because I loved you best, dear. She'll
never come in this house again and I'll never put foot under any
roof that receives her. Ashley agrees with me, but it's just about
broken his heart that his own sister should tell such a--"

At the mention of Ashley's name, Scarlett's overwrought nerves gave
way and she burst into tears. Would she never stop stabbing him to
the heart? Her only thought had been to make him happy and safe
but at every turn she seemed to hurt him. She had wrecked his
life, broken his pride and self-respect, shattered that inner
peace, that calm based on integrity. And now she had alienated him
from the sister he loved so dearly. To save her own reputation and
his wife's happiness, India had to be sacrificed, forced into the
light of a lying, half-crazed, jealous old maid--India who was
absolutely justified in every suspicion she had ever harbored and
every accusing word she had uttered. Whenever Ashley looked into
India's eyes, he would see the truth shining there, truth and
reproach and the cold contempt of which the Wilkeses were masters.

Knowing how Ashley valued honor above his life, Scarlett knew he
must be writhing. He, like Scarlett, was forced to shelter behind
Melanie's skirts. While Scarlett realized the necessity for this
and knew that the blame for his false position lay mostly at her
own door, still--still-- Womanlike she would have respected Ashley
more, had he shot Archie and admitted everything to Melanie and the
world. She knew she was being unfair but she was too miserable to
care for such fine points. Some of Rhett's taunting words of
contempt came back to her and she wondered if indeed Ashley had
played the manly part in this mess. And, for the first time, some
of the bright glow which had enveloped him since the first day she
fell in love with him began to fade imperceptibly. The tarnish of
shame and guilt that enveloped her spread to him as well.
Resolutely she tried to fight off this thought but it only made her
cry harder.

"Don't! Don't!" cried Melanie, dropping her tatting and flinging
herself onto the sofa and drawing Scarlett's head down onto her
shoulder. "I shouldn't have talked about it all and distressed you
so. I know how dreadfully you must feel and we'll never mention it
again. No, not to each other or to anybody. It'll be as though it
never happened. But," she added with quiet venom, "I'm going to
show India and Mrs. Elsing what's what. They needn't think they
can spread lies about my husband and my sister-in-law. I'm going
to fix it so neither of them can hold up their heads in Atlanta.
And anybody who believes them or receives them is my enemy."

Scarlett, looking sorrowfully down the long vista of years to come,
knew that she was the cause of a feud that would split the town and
the family for generations.



Melanie was as good as her word. She never again mentioned the
subject to Scarlett or to Ashley. Nor, for that matter, would she
discuss it with anyone. She maintained an air of cool indifference
that could speedily change to icy formality if anyone even dared
hint about the matter. During the weeks that followed her surprise
party, while Rhett was mysteriously absent and the town in a
frenzied state of gossip, excitement and partisanship, she gave no
quarter to Scarlett's detractors, whether they were her old friends
or her blood kin. She did not speak, she acted.

She stuck by Scarlett's side like a cocklebur. She made Scarlett
go to the store and the lumber yard, as usual, every morning and
she went with her. She insisted that Scarlett go driving in the
afternoons, little though Scarlett wished to expose herself to the
eager curious gaze of her fellow townspeople. And Melanie sat in
the carriage beside her. Melanie took her calling with her on
formal afternoons, gently forcing her into parlors in which
Scarlett had not sat for more than two years. And Melanie, with a
fierce "love-me-love-my-dog" look on her face, made converse with
astounded hostesses.

She made Scarlett arrive early on these afternoons and remain until
the last callers had gone, thereby depriving the ladies of the
opportunity for enjoyable group discussion and speculation, a
matter which caused some mild indignation. These calls were an
especial torment to Scarlett but she dared not refuse to go with
Melanie. She hated to sit amid crowds of women who were secretly
wondering if she had been actually taken in adultery. She hated
the knowledge that these women would not have spoken to her, had it
not been that they loved Melanie and did not want to lose her
friendship. But Scarlett knew that, having once received her, they
could not cut her thereafter.

It was characteristic of the regard in which Scarlett was held that
few people based their defense or their criticism of her on her
personal integrity. "I wouldn't put much beyond her," was the
universal attitude. Scarlett had made too many enemies to have
many champions now. Her words and her actions rankled in too many
hearts for many people to care whether this scandal hurt her or
not. But everyone cared violently about hurting Melanie or India
and the storm revolved around them, rather than Scarlett, centering
upon the one question--"Did India lie?"

Those who espoused Melanie's side pointed triumphantly to the fact
that Melanie was constantly with Scarlett these days. Would a
woman of Melanie's high principles champion the cause of a guilty
woman, especially a woman guilty with her own husband? No, indeed!
India was just a cracked old maid who hated Scarlett and lied about
her and induced Archie and Mrs. Elsing to believe her lies.

But, questioned India's adherents, if Scarlett isn't guilty, where
is Captain Butler? Why isn't he here at his wife's side, lending
her the strength of his countenance? That was an unanswerable
question and, as the weeks went by and the rumor spread that
Scarlett was pregnant, the pro-India group nodded with satisfaction.
It couldn't be Captain Butler's baby, they said. For too long the
fact of their estrangement had been public property. For too long
the town had been scandalized by the separate bedrooms.

So the gossip ran, tearing the town apart, tearing apart, too, the
close-knit clan of Hamiltons, Wilkeses, Burrs, Whitemans and
Winfields. Everyone in the family connection was forced to take
sides. There was no neutral ground. Melanie with cool dignity and
India with acid bitterness saw to that. But no matter which side
the relatives took, they all were resentful that Scarlett should
have been the cause of the family breach. None of them thought her
worth it. And no matter which side they took, the relatives
heartily deplored the fact that India had taken it upon herself to
wash the family dirty linen so publicly and involve Ashley in so
degrading a scandal. But now that she had spoken, many rushed to
her defense and took her side against Scarlett, even as others,
loving Melanie, stood by her and Scarlett.

Half of Atlanta was kin to or claimed kin with Melanie and India.
The ramifications of cousins, double cousins, cousins-in-law and
kissing cousins were so intricate and involved that no one but a
born Georgian could ever unravel them. They had always been a
clannish tribe, presenting an unbroken phalanx of overlapping
shields to the world in time of stress, no matter what their
private opinions of the conduct of individual kinsmen might be.
With the exception of the guerrilla warfare carried on by Aunt
Pitty against Uncle Henry, which had been a matter for hilarious
laughter within the family for years, there had never been an open
breach in the pleasant relations. They were gentle, quiet spoken,
reserved people and not given to even the amiable bickering that
characterized most Atlanta families.

But now they were split in twain and the town was privileged to
witness cousins of the fifth and sixth degree taking sides in the
most shattering scandal Atlanta had ever seen. This worked great
hardship and strained the tact and forbearance of the unrelated
half of the town, for the India-Melanie feud made a rupture in
practically every social organization. The Thalians, the Sewing
Circle for the Widows and Orphans of the Confederacy, the
Association for the Beautification of the Graves of Our Glorious
Dead, the Saturday Night Musical Circle, the Ladies' Evening
Cotillion Society, the Young Men's Library were all involved. So
were four churches with their Ladies' Aid and Missionary societies.
Great care had to be taken to avoid putting members of warring
factions on the same committees.

On their regular afternoons at home, Atlanta matrons were in
anguish from four to six o'clock for fear Melanie and Scarlett
would call at the same time India and her loyal kin were in their
parlors.

Of all the family, poor Aunt Pitty suffered the most. Pitty, who
desired nothing except to live comfortably amid the love of her
relatives, would have been very pleased, in this matter, to run
with the hares and hunt with the hounds. But neither the hares nor
the hounds would permit this.

India lived with Aunt Pitty and, if Pitty sided with Melanie, as
she wished to do, India would leave. And if India left her, what
would poor Pitty do then? She could not live alone. She would
have to get a stranger to live with her or she would have to close
up her house and go and live with Scarlett. Aunt Pitty felt
vaguely that Captain Butler would not care for this, or she would
have to go and live with Melanie and sleep in the little cubbyhole
that was Beau's nursery.

Pitty was not overly fond of India, for India intimidated her with
her dry, stiff-necked ways and her passionate convictions. But she
made it possible for Pitty to keep her own comfortable establishment
and Pitty was always swayed more by considerations of personal
comfort than by moral issues. And so India remained.

But her presence in the house made Aunt Pitty a storm center, for
both Scarlett and Melanie took that to mean that she sided with
India. Scarlett curtly refused to contribute more money to Pitty's
establishment as long as India was under the same roof. Ashley
sent India money every week and every week India proudly and
silently returned it, much to the old lady's alarm and regret.
Finances at the red-brick house would have been in a deplorable
state, but for Uncle Henry's intervention, and it humiliated Pitty
to take money from him.

Pitty loved Melanie better than anyone in the world, except
herself, and now Melly acted like a cool, polite stranger. Though
she practically lived in Pitty's back yard, she never once came
through the hedge and she used to run in and out a dozen times a
day. Pitty called on her and wept and protested her love and
devotion, but Melanie always refused to discuss matters and never
returned the calls.

Pitty knew very well what she owed Scarlett--almost her very
existence. Certainly in those black days after the war when Pitty
was faced with the alternative of Brother Henry or starvation,
Scarlett had kept her home for her, fed her, clothed her and
enabled her to hold up her head in Atlanta society. And since
Scarlett had married and moved into her own home, she had been
generosity itself. And that frightening fascinating Captain
Butler--frequently after he called with Scarlett, Pitty found
brand-new purses stuffed with bills on her console table or lace
handkerchiefs knotted about gold pieces which had been slyly
slipped into her sewing box. Rhett always vowed he knew nothing
about them and accused her, in a very unrefined way, of having a
secret admirer, usually the be-whiskered Grandpa Merriwether.

Yes, Pitty owed love to Melanie, security to Scarlett, and what did
she owe India? Nothing, except that India's presence kept her from
having to break up her pleasant life and make decisions for
herself. It was all most distressing and too, too vulgar and
Pitty, who had never made a decision for herself in her whole life,
simply let matters go on as they were and as a result spent much
time in uncomforted tears.

In the end, some people believed whole-heartedly in Scarlett's
innocence, not because of her own personal virtue but because
Melanie believed in it. Some had mental reservations but they were
courteous to Scarlett and called on her because they loved Melanie
and wished to keep her love. India's adherents bowed coldly and
some few cut her openly. These last were embarrassing, infuriating,
but Scarlett realized that, except for Melanie's championship and
her quick action, the face of the whole town would have been set
against her and she would have been an outcast.




CHAPTER LVI


Rhett was gone for three months and during that time Scarlett had
no word from him. She did not know where he was or how long he
would be gone. Indeed, she had no idea if he would ever return.
During this time, she went about her business with her head high
and her heart sick. She did not feel well physically but, forced
by Melanie, she went to the store every day and tried to keep up a
superficial interest in the mills. But the store palled on her for
the first time and, although the business was treble what it had
been the year before and the money rolling in, she could take no
interest in it and was sharp and cross with the clerks. Johnnie
Gallegher's mill was thriving and the lumber yard selling all his
supply easily, but nothing Johnnie did or said pleased her.
Johnnie, as Irish as she, finally erupted into rage at her naggings
and threatened to quit, after a long tirade which ended with "and
the back of both me hands to you, Ma'm, and the curse of Cromwell
on you." She had to appease him with the most abject of apologies.

She never went to Ashley's mill. Nor did she go to the lumber-yard
office when she thought he would be there. She knew he was
avoiding her, knew that her constant presence in his house, at
Melanie's inescapable invitations, was a torment to him. They
never spoke alone and she was desperate to question him. She
wanted to know whether he now hated her and exactly what he had
told Melanie, but he held her at arm's length and silently pleaded
with her not to speak. The sight of his face, old, haggard with
remorse, added to her load, and the fact that his mill lost money
every week was an extra irritant which she could not voice.

His helplessness in the face of the present situation irked her.
She did not know what he could do to better matters but she felt
that he should do something. Rhett would have done something.
Rhett always did something, even if it was the wrong thing, and she
unwillingly respected him for it.

Now that her first rage at Rhett and his insults had passed, she
began to miss him and she missed him more and more as days went by
without news of him. Out of the welter of rapture and anger and
heartbreak and hurt pride that he had left, depression emerged to
sit upon her shoulder like a carrion crow. She missed him, missed
his light flippant touch in anecdotes that made her shout with
laughter, his sardonic grin that reduced troubles to their proper
proportions, missed even his jeers that stung her to angry retort.
Most of all she missed having him to tell things to. Rhett was so
satisfactory in that respect. She could recount shamelessly and
with pride how she had skinned people out of their eyeteeth and he
would applaud. And if she even mentioned such things to other
people they were shocked.

She was lonely without him and Bonnie. She missed the child more
than she had thought possible. Remembering the last harsh words
Rhett had hurled at her about Wade and Ella, she tried to fill in
some of her empty hours with them. But it was no use. Rhett's
words and the children's reactions opened her eyes to a startling,
a galling truth. During the babyhood of each child she had been
too busy, too worried with money matters, too sharp and easily
vexed, to win their confidence or affection. And now, it was
either too late or she did not have the patience or the wisdom to
penetrate their small secretive hearts.

Ella! It annoyed Scarlett to realize that Ella was a silly child
but she undoubtedly was. She couldn't keep her little mind on one
subject any longer than a bird could stay on one twig and even when
Scarlett tried to tell her stories, Ella went off at childish
tangents, interrupting with questions about matters that had
nothing to do with the story and forgetting what she had asked long
before Scarlett could get the explanation out of her mouth. And as
for Wade--perhaps Rhett was right. Perhaps he was afraid of her.
That was odd and it hurt her. Why should her own boy, her only
boy, be afraid of her? When she tried to draw him out in talk, he
looked at her with Charles' soft brown eyes and squirmed and
twisted his feet in embarrassment. But with Melanie, he bubbled
over with talk and brought from his pocket everything from fishing
worms to old strings to show her.

Melanie had a way with brats. There was no getting around it. Her
own little Beau was the best behaved and most lovable child in
Atlanta. Scarlett got on better with him than she did with her own
son because little Beau had no self-consciousness where grown
people were concerned and climbed on her knee, uninvited, whenever
he saw her. What a beautiful blond boy he was, just like Ashley!
Now if only Wade were like Beau-- Of course, the reason Melanie
could do so much with him was that she had only one child and she
hadn't had to worry and work as Scarlett had. At least, Scarlett
tried to excuse herself that way but honesty forced her to admit
that Melanie loved children and would have welcomed a dozen. And
the over-brimming affection she had was poured out on Wade and the
neighbors' broods.

Scarlett would never forget the shock of the day she drove by
Melanie's house to pick up Wade and heard, as she came up the front
walk, the sound of her son's voice raised in a very fair imitation
of the Rebel Yell--Wade who was always as still as a mouse at home.
And manfully seconding Wade's yell was the shrill piping of Beau.
When she had walked into the sitting room she had found the two
charging at the sofa with wooden swords. They had hushed abashed
as she entered and Melanie had arisen, laughing and clutching at
hairpins and flying curls from where she was crouching behind the
sofa.

"It's Gettysburg," she explained. "And I'm the Yankees and I've
gotten the worst of it. This is General Lee," pointing to Beau,
"and this is General Pickett," putting an arm about Wade's
shoulder.

Yes, Melanie had a way with children that Scarlett could never
fathom.

"At least," she thought, "Bonnie loves me and likes to play with
me." But honesty forced her to admit that Bonnie infinitely
preferred Rhett to her. And perhaps she would never see Bonnie
again. For all she knew, Rhett might be in Perisa or Egypt and
intending to stay there forever.

When Dr. Meade told her she was pregnant, she was astounded, for
she had been expecting a diagnosis of biliousness and over-wrought
nerves. Then her mind fled back to that wild night and her face
went crimson at the memory. So a child was coming from those
moments of high rapture--even if the memory of the rapture was
dimmed by what followed. And for the first time she was glad that
she was going to have a child. If it were only a boy! A fine boy,
not a spiritless little creature like Wade. How she would care for
him! Now that she had the leisure to devote to a baby and the
money to smooth his path, how happy she would be! She had an
impulse to write to Rhett in care of his mother in Charleston and
tell him. Good Heavens, he must come home now! Suppose he stayed
away till after the baby was born! She could never explain that!
But if she wrote him he'd think she wanted him to come home and he
would be amused. And he mustn't ever think she wanted him or
needed him.

She was very glad she had stifled this impulse when her first news
of Rhett came in a letter from Aunt Pauline in Charleston where, it
seemed, Rhett was visiting his mother. What a relief to know he
was still in the United States, even if Aunt Pauline's letter was
infuriating. Rhett had brought Bonnie to see her and Aunt Eulalie
and the letter was full of praise.

"Such a little beauty! When she grows up she will certainly be a
belle. But I suppose you know that any man who courts her will
have a tussle with Captain Butler, for I never saw such a devoted
father. Now, my dear, I wish to confess something. Until I met
Captain Butler, I felt that your marriage with him had been a
dreadful mesalliance for, of course, no one in Charleston hears
anything good about him and everyone is so sorry for his family.
In fact, Eulalie and I were uncertain as to whether or not we
should receive him--but, after all, the dear child is our great-
niece. When he came, we were pleasantly surprised, most
pleasantly, and realized how un-Christian it is to credit idle
gossip. For he is most charming. Quite handsome, too, we thought,
and so very grave and courteous. And so devoted to you and the
child.

"And now, my dear, I must write you of something that has come to
our ears--something Eulalie and I were loath to believe at first.
We had heard, of course, that you sometimes did help out at the
store that Mr. Kennedy had left you. We had heard rumors but, of
course, we denied them. We realized that in those first dreadful
days after the war, it was perhaps necessary, conditions being what
they were. But there is no necessity now for such conduct on your
part, as I know Captain Butler is in quite comfortable circumstances
and is, moreover, fully capable of managing for you any business and
property you may own. We had to know the truth of these rumors and
were forced to ask Captain Butler point-blank questions which was
most distressing to all of us.

"With reluctance he told us that you spent your mornings at the
store and would permit no one else to do the bookkeeping. He also
admitted that you had some interest in a mill or mills (we did not
press him on this, being most upset at this information which was
news to us) that necessitated your riding about alone, or attended
by a ruffian who, Captain Butler assures us, is a murderer. We
could see how this wrung his heart and think he must be a most
indulgent--in fact, a far too indulgent husband. Scarlett, this
must stop. Your mother is not here to command you and I must do it
in her place. Think how your little children will feel when they
grow older and realize that you were in trade! How mortified they
will be to know that you exposed yourself to the insults of rude
men and the dangers of careless gossip in attending to mills. Such
unwomanly--"

Scarlett flung down the letter unfinished, with an oath. She could
just see Aunt Pauline and Aunt Eulalie sitting in judgment on her
in the crumbling house on the Battery with little between them and
starvation except what she, Scarlett, sent them every month.
Unwomanly? By God, if she hadn't been unwomanly Aunt Pauline and
Aunt Eulalie probably wouldn't have a roof over their heads this
very moment. And damn Rhett for telling them about the store and
the bookkeeping and the mills! Reluctant, was he? She knew very
well the joy he took in palming himself off on the old ladies as
grave, courteous and charming, the devoted husband and father.
How he must have loved harrowing them with descriptions of her
activities with the store, the mills, the saloon. What a devil he
was. Why did such perverse things give him such pleasure?

But soon, even this rage passed into apathy. So much of the keen
zest had gone out of life recently. If only she could recapture
the thrill and the glow of Ashley--if only Rhett would come home
and make her laugh.



They were home again, without warning. The first intimation of
their return was the sound of luggage being thumped on the front-
hall floor and Bonnie's voice crying, "Mother!"

Scarlett hurried from her room to the top of the stairs and saw her
daughter stretching her short plump legs in an effort to climb the
steps. A resigned striped kitten was clutched to her breast.

"Gran'ma gave him to me," she cried excitedly, holding the kitten
out by the scruff.

Scarlett swept her up into her arms and kissed her, thankful that
the child's presence spared her her first meeting alone with Rhett.
Looking over Bonnie's head, she saw him in the hall below, paying
the cab driver. He looked up, saw her and swept off his hat in a
wide gesture, bowing as he did. When she met his dark eyes, her
heart leaped. No matter what he was, no matter what he had done,
he was home and she was glad.

"Where's Mammy?" asked Bonnie, wriggling in Scarlett's grasp and
she reluctantly set the child on her feet.

It was going to be more difficult than she anticipated, greeting
Rhett with just the proper degree of casualness and, as for telling
him about the new baby! She looked at his face as he came up the
steps, that dark nonchalant face, so impervious, so blank. No,
she'd wait to tell him. She couldn't tell him right away. And
yet, such tidings as these belonged first to a husband, for a
husband was always happy to hear them. But she did not think he
would be happy about it.

She stood on the landing, leaning against the banisters and
wondered if he would kiss her. But he did not. He said only:
"You are looking pale, Mrs. Butler. Is there a rouge shortage?"

No word of missing her, even if he didn't mean it. And he might
have at least kissed her in front of Mammy who, after bobbing a
curtsy, was leading Bonnie away down the hall to the nursery. He
stood beside her on the landing, his eyes appraising her carelessly.

"Can this wanness mean that you've been missing me?" he questioned
and though his lips smiled, his eyes did not.

So that was going to be his attitude. He was going to be as
hateful as ever. Suddenly the child she was carrying became a
nauseating burden instead of something she had gladly carried, and
this man before her, standing carelessly with his wide Panama hat
upon his hip, her bitterest foe, the cause of all her troubles.
There was venom in her eyes as she answered, venom that was too
unmistakable to be missed, and the smile went from his face.

"If I'm pale it's your fault and not because I've missed you, you
conceited thing. It's because--" Oh, she hadn't intended to tell
him like this but the hot words rushed to her lips and she flung
them at him, careless of the servants who might hear. "It's
because I'm going to have a baby!"

He sucked in his breath suddenly and his eyes went rapidly over
her. He took a quick step toward her as though to put a hand on
her arm but she twisted away from him, and before the hate in her
eyes his face hardened.

"Indeed!" he said coolly. "Well, who's the happy father? Ashley?"

She clutched the newel post until the ears of the carved lion dug
with sudden pain into her palm. Even she who knew him so well had
not anticipated this insult. Of course, he was joking but there
were some jokes too monstrous to be borne. She wanted to rake her
sharp nails across his eyes and blot out that queer light in them.

"Damn you!" she began, her voice shaking with sick rage. "You--you
know it's yours. And I don't want it any more than you do. No--no
woman would want the children of a cad like you. I wish-- Oh,
God, I wish it was anybody's baby but yours!"

She saw his swarthy face change suddenly, anger and something she
could not analyze making it twitch as though stung.

"There!" she thought in a hot rage of pleasure. "There! I've hurt
him now!"

But the old impassive mask was back across his face and he stroked
one side of his mustache.

"Cheer up," he said, turning from her and starting up the stairs,
"maybe you'll have a miscarriage."

For a dizzy moment she thought what childbearing meant, the nausea
that tore her, the tedious waiting, the thickening of her figure,
the hours of pain. Things no man could ever realize. And he dared
to joke. She would claw him. Nothing but the sight of blood upon
his dark face would ease this pain in her heart. She lunged for
him, swift as a cat, but with a light startled movement, he
sidestepped, throwing up his arm to ward her off. She was standing
on the edge of the freshly waxed top step, and as her arm with the
whole weight of her body behind it, struck his out-thrust arm, she
lost her balance. She made a wild clutch for the newel post and
missed it. She went down the stairs backwards, feeling a sickening
dart of pain in her ribs as she landed. And, too dazed to catch
herself, she rolled over and over to the bottom of the flight.



It was the first time Scarlett had ever been ill, except when she
had her babies, and somehow those times did not count. She had not
been forlorn and frightened then, as she was now, weak and pain
racked and bewildered. She knew she was sicker than they dared
tell her, feebly realized that she might die. The broken rib
stabbed when she breathed, her bruised face and head ached and her
whole body was given over to demons who plucked at her with hot
pinchers and sawed on her with dull knives and left her, for short
intervals, so drained of strength that she could not regain grip on
herself before they returned. No, childbirth had not been like
this. She had been able to eat hearty meals two hours after Wade
and Ella and Bonnie had been born, but now the thought of anything
but cool water brought on feeble nausea.

How easy it was to have a child and how painful not to have one!
Strange, what a pang it had been even in her pain, to know that she
would not have this child. Stranger still that it should have been
the first child she really wanted. She tried to think why she
wanted it but her mind was too tired. Her mind was too tired to
think of anything except fear of death. Death was in the room and
she had no strength to confront it, to fight it back and she was
frightened. She wanted someone strong to stand by her and hold her
hand and fight off death until enough strength came back for her to
do her own fighting.

Rage had been swallowed up in pain and she wanted Rhett. But he
was not there and she could not bring herself to ask for him.

Her last memory of him was how he looked as he picked her up in the
dark hall at the bottom of the steps, his face white and wiped
clean of all save hideous fear, his voice hoarsely calling for
Mammy. And then there was a faint memory of being carried
upstairs, before darkness came over her mind. And then pain and
more pain and the room full of buzzing voices and Aunt Pittypat's
sobs and Dr. Meade's brusque orders and feet that hurried on the
stairs and tiptoes in the upper hall. And then like a blinding ray
of lightning, the knowledge of death and fear that suddenly made
her try to scream a name and the scream was only a whisper.

But that forlorn whisper brought instant response from somewhere in
the darkness beside the bed and the soft voice of the one she
called made answer in lullaby tones: "I'm here, dear. I've been
right here all the time."

Death and fear receded gently as Melanie took her hand and laid it
quietly against her cool cheek. Scarlett tried to turn to see her
face and could not. Melly was having a baby and the Yankees were
coming. The town was afire and she must hurry, hurry. But Melly
was having a baby and she couldn't hurry. She must stay with her
till the baby came and be strong because Melly needed her strength.
Melly was hurting so bad--there were hot pinchers at her and dull
knives and recurrent waves of pain. She must hold Melly's hand.

But Dr. Meade was there after all, he had come, even if the soldiers
at the depot did need him for she heard him say: "Delirious.
Where's Captain Butler?"

The night was dark and then light and sometimes she was having a
baby and sometimes it was Melanie who cried out, but through it all
Melly was there and her hands were cool and she did not make futile
anxious gestures or sob like Aunt Pitty. Whenever Scarlett opened
her eyes, she said "Melly?" and the voice answered. And usually
she started to whisper: "Rhett--I want Rhett" and remembered, as
from a dream, that Rhett didn't want her, that Rhett's face was
dark as an Indian's and his teeth were white in a jeer. She wanted
him and he didn't want her.

Once she said "Melly?" and Mammy's voice said: "S'me, chile," and
put a cold rag on her forehead and she cried fretfully: "Melly--
Melanie" over and over but for a long time Melanie did not come.
For Melanie was sitting on the edge of Rhett's bed and Rhett, drunk
and sobbing, was sprawled on the floor, crying, his head in her
lap.

Every time she had come out of Scarlett's room she had seen him,
sitting on his bed, his door wide, watching the door across the
hall. The room was untidy, littered with cigar butts and dishes of
untouched food. The bed was tumbled and unmade and he sat on it,
unshaven and suddenly gaunt, endlessly smoking. He never asked
questions when he saw her. She always stood in the doorway for a
minute, giving the news: "I'm sorry, she's worse," or "No, she
hasn't asked for you yet. You see, she's delirious" or "You
mustn't give up hope, Captain Butler. Let me fix you some hot
coffee and something to eat. You'll make yourself ill."

Her heart always ached with pity for him, although she was almost
too tired and sleepy to feel anything. How could people say such
mean things about him--say he was heartless and wicked and
unfaithful to Scarlett, when she could see him getting thin before
her eyes, see the torment in his face? Tired as she was, she
always tried to be kinder than usual when she gave bulletins from
the sick room. He looked so like a damned soul waiting judgment--
so like a child in a suddenly hostile world. But everyone was like
a child to Melanie.

But when, at last, she went joyfully to his door to tell him that
Scarlett was better, she was unprepared for what she found. There
was a half-empty bottle of whisky on the table by the bed and the
room reeked with the odor. He looked at her with bright glazed
eyes and his jaw muscles trembled despite his efforts to set his
teeth.

"She's dead?"

"Oh, no. She's much better."

He said: "Oh, my God," and put his head in his hands. She saw his
wide shoulders shake as with a nervous chill and, as she watched
him pityingly, her pity changed to horror for she saw that he was
crying. Melanie had never seen a man cry and of all men, Rhett, so
suave, so mocking, so eternally sure of himself.

It frightened her, the desperate choking sound he made. She had a
terrified thought that he was drunk and Melanie was afraid of
drunkenness. But when he raised his head and she caught one
glimpse of his eyes, she stepped swiftly into the room, closed the
door softly behind her and went to him. She had never seen a man
cry but she had comforted the tears of many children. When she put
a soft hand on his shoulder, his arms went suddenly around her
skirts. Before she knew how it happened she was sitting on the bed
and he was on the floor, his head in her lap and his arms and hands
clutching her in a frantic clasp that hurt her.

She stroked the black head gently and said: "There! There!"
soothingly. "There! She's going to get well."

At her words, his grip tightened and he began speaking rapidly,
hoarsely, babbling as though to a grave which would never give up
its secrets, babbling the truth for the first time in his life,
baring himself mercilessly to Melanie who was at first, utterly
uncomprehending, utterly maternal. He talked brokenly, burrowing
his head in her lap, tugging at the folds of her skirt. Sometimes
his words were blurred, muffled, sometimes they came far too
clearly to her ears, harsh, bitter words of confession and
abasement, speaking of things she had never heard even a woman
mention, secret things that brought the hot blood of modesty to her
cheeks and made her grateful for his bowed head.

She patted his head as she did little Beau's and said: "Hush!
Captain Butler! You must not tell me these things! You are not
yourself. Hush!" But his voice went on in a wild torrent of
outpouring and he held to her dress as though it were his hope of
life.

He accused himself of deeds she did not understand; he mumbled the
name of Belle Watling and then he shook her with his violence as he
cried: "I've killed Scarlett, I've killed her. You don't
understand. She didn't want this baby and--"

"You must hush! You are beside yourself! Not want a baby? Why
every woman wants--"

"No! No! You want babies. But she doesn't. Not my babies--"

"You must stop!"

"You don't understand. She didn't want a baby and I made her.
This--this baby--it's all my damned fault. We hadn't been sleeping
together--"

"Hush, Captain Butler! It is not fit--"

"And I was drunk and insane and I wanted to hurt her--because she
had hurt me. I wanted to--and I did--but she didn't want me.
She's never wanted me. She never has and I tried--I tried so hard
and--"

"Oh, please!"

"And I didn't know about this baby till the other day--when she
fell. She didn't know where I was to write to me and tell me--but
she wouldn't have written me if she had known. I tell you--I tell
you I'd have come straight home--if I'd only known--whether she
wanted me home or not. . . ."

"Oh, yes, I know you would!"

"God, I've been crazy these weeks, crazy and drunk! And when she
told me, there on the steps--what did I do? What did I say? I
laughed and said: 'Cheer up. Maybe you'll have a miscarriage.'
And she--"

Melanie suddenly went white and her eyes widened with horror as she
looked down at the black tormented head writhing in her lap. The
afternoon sun streamed in through the open window and suddenly she
saw, as for the first time, how large and brown and strong his
hands were and how thickly the black hairs grew along the backs of
them. Involuntarily, she recoiled from them. They seemed so
predatory, so ruthless and yet, twined in her skirt, so broken, so
helpless.

Could it be possible that he had heard and believed the preposterous
lie about Scarlett and Ashley and become jealous? True, he had left
town immediately after the scandal broke but-- No, it couldn't be
that. Captain Butler was always going off abruptly on journeys. He
couldn't have believed the gossip. He was too sensible. If that
had been the cause of the trouble, wouldn't he have tried to shoot
Ashley? Or at least demanded an explanation?

No, it couldn't be that. It was only that he was drunk and sick
from strain and his mind was running wild, like a man delirious,
babbling wild fantasies. Men couldn't stand strains as well as
women. Something had upset him, perhaps he had had a small quarrel
with Scarlett and magnified it. Perhaps some of the awful things
he said were true. But all of them could not be true. Oh, not
that last, certainly! No man could say such a thing to a woman he
loved as passionately as this man loved Scarlett. Melanie had never
seen evil, never seen cruelty, and now that she looked on them for
the first time she found them too inconceivable to believe. He was
drunk and sick. And sick children must be humored.

"There! There!" she said crooningly. "Hush, now. I understand."

He raised his head violently and looked up at her with bloodshot
eyes, fiercely throwing off her hands.

"No, by God, you don't understand! You can't understand! You're--
you're too good to understand. You don't believe me but it's all
true and I'm a dog. Do you know why I did it? I was mad, crazy
with jealousy. She never cared for me and I thought I could make
her care. But she never cared. She doesn't love me. She never
has. She loves--"

His passionate, drunken gaze met hers and he stopped, mouth open,
as though for the first time he realized to whom he was speaking.
Her face was white and strained but her eyes were steady and sweet
and full of pity and unbelief. There was a luminous serenity in
them and the innocence in the soft brown depths struck him like a
blow in the face, clearing some of the alcohol out of his brain,
halting his mad, careering words in mid-flight. He trailed off
into a mumble, his eyes dropping away from hers, his lids batting
rapidly as he fought back to sanity.

"I'm a cad," he muttered, dropping his head tiredly back into her
lap. "But not that big a cad. And if I did tell you, you wouldn't
believe me, would you? You're too good to believe me. I never
before knew anybody who was really good. You wouldn't believe me,
would you?"

"No, I wouldn't believe you," said Melanie soothingly, beginning to
stroke his hair again. "She's going to get well. There, Captain
Butler! Don't cry! She's going to get well."



CHAPTER LVII


It was a pale, thin woman that Rhett put on the Jonesboro train a
month later. Wade and Ella, who were to make the trip with her,
were silent and uneasy at their mother's still, white face. They
clung close to Prissy, for even to their childish minds there was
something frightening in the cold, impersonal atmosphere between
their mother and their stepfather.

Weak as she was, Scarlett was going home to Tara. She felt that
she would stifle if she stayed in Atlanta another day, with her
tired mind forcing itself round and round the deeply worn circle of
futile thoughts about the mess she was in. She was sick in body
and weary in mind and she was standing like a lost child in a
nightmare country in which there was no familiar landmark to guide
her.

As she had once fled Atlanta before an invading army, so she was
fleeing it again, pressing her worries into the back of her mind
with her old defense against the world: "I won't think of it now.
I can't stand it if I do. I'll think of it tomorrow at Tara.
Tomorrow's another day." It seemed that if she could only get back
to the stillness and the green cotton fields of home, all her
troubles would fall away and she would somehow be able to mold her
shattered thoughts into something she could live by.

Rhett watched the train until it was out of sight and on his face
there was a look of speculative bitterness that was not pleasant.
He sighed, dismissed the carriage and mounting his horse, rode down
Ivy Street toward Melanie's house.

It was a warm morning and Melanie sat on the vine-shaded porch, her
mending basket piled high with socks. Confusion and dismay filled
her when she saw Rhett alight from his horse and toss the reins
over the arm of the cast-iron negro boy who stood at the sidewalk.
She had not seen him alone since that too dreadful day when
Scarlett had been so ill and he had been so--well--so drunk.
Melanie hated even to think the word. She had spoken to him only
casually during Scarlett's convalescence and, on those occasions,
she had found it difficult to meet his eyes. However, he had been
his usual bland self at those times, and never by look or word
showed that such a scene had taken place between them. Ashley had
told her once that men frequently did not remember things said and
done in drink and Melanie prayed heartily that Captain Butler's
memory had failed him on that occasion. She felt she would rather
die than learn that he remembered his outpourings. Timidity and
embarrassment swept over her and waves of color mounted her cheeks
as he came up the walk. But perhaps he had only come to ask if
Beau could spend the day with Bonnie. Surely he wouldn't have the
bad taste to come and thank her for what she had done that day!

She rose to meet him, noting with surprise, as always, how lightly
he walked for a big man.

"Scarlett has gone?"

"Yes. Tara will do her good," he said smiling. "Sometimes I think
she's like the giant Antaeus who became stronger each time he
touched Mother Earth. It doesn't do for Scarlett to stay away too
long from the patch of red mud she loves. The sight of cotton
growing will do her more good than all Dr. Meade's tonics."

"Won't you sit down?" said Melanie, her hands fluttering. He was
so very large and male, and excessively male creatures always
discomposed her. They seem to radiate a force and vitality that
made her feel smaller and weaker even than she was. He looked so
swarthy and formidable and the heavy muscles in his shoulders
swelled against his white linen coat in a way that frightened her.
It seemed impossible that she had seen all this strength and
insolence brought low. And she had held that black head in her
lap!

"Oh, dear!" she thought in distress and blushed again.

"Miss Melly," he said gently, "does my presence annoy you? Would
you rather I went away? Pray be frank."

"Oh!" she thought. "He does remember! And he knows how upset I
am!"

She looked up at him, imploringly, and suddenly her embarrassment
and confusion faded. His eyes were so quiet, so kind, so
understanding that she wondered how she could ever have been silly
enough to be flurried. His face looked tired and, she thought with
surprise, more than a little sad. How could she have even thought
he'd be ill bred enough to bring up subjects both would rather
forget?

"Poor thing, he's been so worried about Scarlett," she thought, and
managing a smile, she said: "Do sit down, Captain Butler."

He sat down heavily and watched her as she picked up her darning.

"Miss Melly, I've come to ask a very great favor of you and," he
smiled and his mouth twisted down, "to enlist your aid in a
deception from which I know you will shrink."

"A--deception?"

"Yes. Really, I've come to talk business to you."

"Oh, dear. Then it's Mr. Wilkes you'd better see. I'm such a
goose about business. I'm not smart like Scarlett."

"I'm afraid Scarlett is too smart for her own good," he said, "and
that is exactly what I want to talk to you about. You know how--
ill she's been. When she gets back from Tara she will start again
hammer and tongs with the store and those mills which I wish
devoutly would explode some night. I fear for her health, Miss
Melly."

"Yes, she does far too much. You must make her stop and take care
of herself."

He laughed.

"You know how headstrong she is. I never even try to argue with
her. She's just like a willful child. She won't let me help her--
she won't let anyone help her. I've tried to get her to sell her
share in the mills but she won't. And now, Miss Melly, I come to
the business matter. I know Scarlett would sell the remainder of
her interest in the mills to Mr. Wilkes but to no one else, and I
want Mr. Wilkes to buy her out."

"Oh, dear me! That would be nice but--" Melanie stopped and bit
her lip. She could not mention money matters to an outsider.
Somehow, despite what he made from the mill, she and Ashley never
seemed to have enough money. It worried her that they saved so
little. She did not know where the money went. Ashley gave her
enough to run the house on, but when it came to extra expenses they
were often pinched. Of course, her doctors bills were so much, and
then the books and furniture Ashley ordered from New York did run
into money. And they had fed and clothed any number of waifs who
slept in their cellar. And Ashley never felt like refusing a loan
to any man who'd been in the Confederate Army. And--

"Miss Melly, I want to lend you the money," said Rhett.

"That's so kind of you, but we might never repay it."

"I don't want it repaid. Don't be angry with me, Miss Melly! Please
hear me through. It will repay me enough to know that Scarlett will
not be exhausting herself driving miles to the mills every day. The
store will be enough to keep her busy and happy. . . . Don't you
see?"

"Well--yes--" said Melanie uncertainly.

"You want your boy to have a pony don't you? And want him to go to
the university and to Harvard and to Europe on a Grand Tour?"

"Oh, of course," cried Melanie, her face lighting up, as always, at
the mention of Beau. "I want him to have everything but--well,
everyone is so poor these days that--"

"Mr. Wilkes could make a pile of money out of the mills some day,"
said Rhett. "And I'd like to see Beau have all the advantages he
deserves."

"Oh, Captain Butler, what a crafty wretch you are!" she cried,
smiling. "Appealing to a mother's pride! I can read you like a
book."

"I hope not," said Rhett, and for the first time there was a gleam
in his eye. "Now will you let me lend you the money?"

"But where does the deception come in?"

"We must be conspirators and deceive both Scarlett and Mr. Wilkes."

"Oh, dear! I couldn't!"

"If Scarlett knew I had plotted behind her back, even for her own
good--well, you know her temper! And I'm afraid Mr. Wilkes would
refuse any loan I offered him. So neither of them must know where
the money comes from."

"Oh, but I'm sure Mr. Wilkes wouldn't refuse, if he understood the
matter. He is so fond of Scarlett."

"Yes, I'm sure he is," said Rhett smoothly. "But just the same he
would refuse. You know how proud all the Wilkes are."

"Oh, dear!" cried Melanie miserably, "I wish-- Really, Captain
Butler, I couldn't deceive my husband."

"Not even to help Scarlett?" Rhett looked very hurt. "And she is
so fond of you!"

Tears trembled on Melanie's eyelids.

"You know I'd do anything in the world for her. I can never, never
half repay her for what she's done for me. You know."

"Yes," he said shortly, "I know what she's done for you. Couldn't
you tell Mr. Wilkes that the money was left you in the will of some
relative?"

"Oh, Captain Butler, I haven't a relative with a penny to bless
him!"

"Then, if I sent the money through the mail to Mr. Wilkes without
his knowing who sent it, would you see that it was used to buy the
mills and not--well, given away to destitute ex-Confederates?"

At first she looked hurt at his last words, as though they implied
criticism of Ashley, but he smiled so understandingly she smiled
back.

"Of course I will."

"So it's settled? It's to be our secret?"

"But I have never kept anything secret from my husband!"

"I'm sure of that, Miss Melly."

As she looked at him she thought how right she had always been
about him and how wrong so many other people were. People had said
he was brutal and sneering and bad mannered and even dishonest.
Though many of the nicest people were now admitting they had been
wrong. Well! She had known from the very beginning that he was a
fine man. She had never received from him anything but the kindest
treatment, thoughtfulness, utter respect and what understanding!
And then, how he loved Scarlett! How sweet of him to take this
roundabout way of sparing Scarlett one of the loads she carried!

In an impulsive rush of feeling, she said: "Scarlett's lucky to
have a husband who's so nice to her!"

"You think so? I'm afraid she wouldn't agree with you, if she
could hear you. Besides, I want to be nice to you too, Miss Melly.
I'm giving you more than I'm giving Scarlett."

"Me!" she questioned, puzzled. "Oh, you mean for Beau."

He picked up his hat and rose. He stood for a moment looking down
at the plain, heart-shaped face with its long widow's peak and
serious dark eyes. Such an unworldly face, a face with no defenses
against life.

"No, not Beau. I'm trying to give you something more than Beau, if
you can imagine that."

"No, I can't," she said, bewildered again. "There's nothing in the
world more precious to me than Beau except Ash--except Mr. Wilkes."

Rhett said nothing and looked down at her, his dark face still.

"You're mighty nice to want to do things for me, Captain Butler,
but really, I'm so lucky. I have everything in the world any woman
could want."

"That's fine," said Rhett, suddenly grim. "And I intend to see
that you keep them."



When Scarlett came back from Tara, the unhealthy pallor had gone
from her face and her cheeks were rounded and faintly pink. Her
green eyes were alert and sparkling again, and she laughed aloud
for the first time in weeks when Rhett and Bonnie met her and Wade
and Ella at the depot--laughed in annoyance and amusement. Rhett
had two straggling turkey feathers in the brim of his hat and
Bonnie, dressed in a sadly torn dress that was her Sunday frock,
had diagonal lines of indigo blue on her cheeks and a peacock
feather half as long as she was in her curls. Evidently a game of
Indian had been in progress when the time came to meet the train
and it was obvious from the look of quizzical helplessness on
Rhett's face and the lowering indignation of Mammy that Bonnie had
refused to have her toilet remedied, even to meet her mother.

Scarlett said: "What a ragamuffin!" as she kissed the child and
turned a cheek for Rhett's lips. There were crowds of people in
the depot or she would never have invited this caress. She could
not help noticing, for all her embarrassment at Bonnie's
appearance, that everyone in the crowd was smiling at the figure
father and daughter cut, smiling not in derision but in genuine
amusement and kindness. Everyone knew that Scarlett's youngest had
her father under her thumb and Atlanta was amused and approving.
Rhett's great love for his child had gone far toward reinstating
him in public opinion.

On the way home, Scarlett was full of County news. The hot, dry
weather was making the cotton grow so fast you could almost hear it
but Will said cotton prices were going to be low this fall.
Suellen was going to have another baby--she spelled this out so the
children would not comprehend--and Ella had shown unwonted spirit
in biting Suellen's oldest girl. Though, observed Scarlett, it was
no more than little Susie deserved, she being her mother all over
again. But Suellen had become infuriated and they had had an
invigorating quarrel that was just like old times. Wade had killed
a water moccasin, all by himself. 'Randa and Camilla Tarleton were
teaching school and wasn't that a joke? Not a one of the Tarletons
had ever been able to spell cat! Betsy Tarleton had married a fat
one-armed man from Lovejoy and they and Hetty and Jim Tarleton were
raising a good cotton crop at Fairhill. Mrs. Tarleton had a brood
mare and a colt and was as happy as though she had a million
dollars. And there were negroes living in the old Calvert house!
Swarms of them and they actually owned it! They'd bought it in at
the sheriff's sale. The place was dilapidated and it made you cry
to look at it. No one knew where Cathleen and her no-good husband
had gone. And Alex was to marry Sally, his brother's widow!
Imagine that, after them living in the same house for so many
years! Everybody said it was a marriage of convenience because
people were beginning to gossip about them living there alone,
since both Old Miss and Young Miss had died. And it had about
broken Dimity Munroe's heart. But it served her right. If she'd
had any gumption she'd have caught her another man long ago,
instead of waiting for Alex to get money enough to marry her.

Scarlett chattered on cheerfully but there were many things about
the County which she suppressed, things that hurt to think about.
She had driven over the County with Will, trying not to remember
when these thousands of fertile acres had stood green with cotton.
Now, plantation after plantation was going back to the forest, and
dismal fields of broomsedge, scrub oak and runty pines had grown
stealthily about silent ruins and over old cotton fields. Only one
acre was being farmed now where once a hundred had been under the
plow. It was like moving through a dead land.

"This section won't come back for fifty years--if it ever comes
back," Will had said. "Tara's the best farm in the County, thanks
to you and me, Scarlett, but it's a farm, a two-mule farm, not a
plantation. And the Fontaine place, it comes next to Tara and then
the Tarletons. They ain't makin' much money but they're gettin'
along and they got gumption. But most of the rest of the folks,
the rest of the farms--"

No, Scarlett did not like to remember the way the deserted County
looked. It seemed even sadder, in retrospect, beside the bustle
and prosperity of Atlanta.

"Has anything happened here?" she asked when they were finally home
and were seated on the front porch. She had talked rapidly and
continuously all the way home, fearing that a silence would fall.
She had not had a word alone with Rhett since that day when she
fell down the steps and she was none too anxious to be alone with
him now. She did not know how he felt toward her. He had been
kindness itself during her miserable convalescence, but it was the
kindness of an impersonal stranger. He had anticipated her wants,
kept the children from bothering her and supervised the store and
the mills. But he had never said: "I'm sorry." Well, perhaps he
wasn't sorry. Perhaps he still thought that child that was never
born was not his child. How could she tell what went on in the
mind behind the bland dark face? But he had showed a disposition
to be courteous, for the first time in their married life, and a
desire to let life go on as though there had never been anything
unpleasant between them--as though, thought Scarlett, cheerlessly,
as though there had never been anything at all between them. Well,
if that was what he wanted, she could act her part too.

"Is everything all right?" she repeated. "Did you get the new
shingles for the store? Did you swap the mules? For Heaven's
sake, Rhett, take those feathers out of your hat. You look a fool
and you'll be likely to wear them downtown without remembering to
take them out."

"No," said Bonnie, picking up her father's hat, defensively.

"Everything has gone very well here," replied Rhett. "Bonnie and I
have had a nice time and I don't believe her hair has been combed
since you left. Don't suck the feathers, darling, they may be
nasty. Yes, the shingles are fixed and I got a good trade on the
mules. No, there's really no news. Everything has been quite
dull."

Then, as an afterthought, he added: "The honorable Ashley was over
here last night. He wanted to know if I thought you would sell him
your mill and the part interest you have in his."

Scarlett, who had been rocking and fanning herself with a turkey
tail fan, stopped abruptly.

"Sell? Where on earth did Ashley get the money? You know they
never have a cent. Melanie spends it as fast as he makes it."

Rhett shrugged. "I always thought her a frugal little person, but
then I'm not as well informed about the intimate details of the
Wilkes family as you seem to be."

That jab seemed in something of Rhett's old style and Scarlett grew
annoyed.

"Run away, dear," she said to Bonnie. "Mother wants to talk to
Father."

"No," said Bonnie positively and climbed upon Rhett's lap.

Scarlett frowned at her child and Bonnie scowled back in so
complete a resemblance to Gerald O'Hara that Scarlett almost
laughed.

"Let her stay," said Rhett comfortably. "As to where he got the
money, it seems it was sent him by someone he nursed through a case
of smallpox at Rock Island. It renews my faith in human nature to
know that gratitude still exists."

"Who was it? Anyone we know?"

"The letter was unsigned and came from Washington. Ashley was at a
loss to know who could have sent it. But then, one of Ashley's
unselfish temperament goes about the world doing so many good deeds
that you can't expect him to remember all of them."

Had she not been so surprised at Ashley's windfall, Scarlett would
have taken up this gauntlet, although while at Tara she had decided
that never again would she permit herself to be involved in any
quarrel with Rhett about Ashley. The ground on which she stood in
this matter was entirely too uncertain and, until she knew exactly
where she stood with both men, she did not care to be drawn out.

"He wants to buy me out?"

"Yes. But of course, I told him you wouldn't sell."

"I wish you'd let me mind my own business."

"Well, you know you wouldn't part with the mills. I told him that
he knew as well as I did that you couldn't bear not to have your
finger in everybody's pie, and if you sold out to him, then you
wouldn't be able to tell him how to mind his own business."

"You dared say that to him about me?"

"Why not? It's true, isn't it? I believe he heartily agreed with
me but, of course, he was too much of a gentleman to come right out
and say so."

"It's a lie! I will sell them to him!" cried Scarlett angrily.

Until that moment, she had had no idea of parting with the mills.
She had several reasons for wanting to keep them and their monetary
value was the least reason. She could have sold them for large
sums any time in the last few years, but she had refused all
offers. The mills were the tangible evidence of what she had done,
unaided and against great odds, and she was proud of them and of
herself. Most of all, she did not want to sell them because they
were the only path that lay open to Ashley. If the mills went from
her control it would mean that she would seldom see Ashley and
probably never see him alone. And she had to see him alone. She
could not go on this way any longer, wondering what his feelings
toward her were now, wondering if all his love had died in shame
since the dreadful night of Melanie's party. In the course of
business she could find many opportune times for conversations
without it appearing to anyone that she was seeking him out. And,
given time, she knew she could gain back whatever ground she had
lost in his heart. But if she sold the mills--

No, she did not want to sell but, goaded by the thought that Rhett
had exposed her to Ashley in so truthful and so unflattering a
light, she had made up her mind instantly. Ashley should have the
mills and at a price so low he could not help realizing how
generous she was.

"I will sell!" she cried furiously. "Now, what do you think of
that?"

There was the faintest gleam of triumph in Rhett's eyes as he bent
to tie Bonnie's shoe string.

"I think you'll regret it," he said.

Already she was regretting the hasty words. Had they been spoken
to anyone save Rhett she would have shamelessly retracted them.
Why had she burst out like that? She looked at Rhett with an angry
frown and saw that he was watching her with his old keen, cat-at-a-
mouse-hole look. When he saw her frown, he laughed suddenly, his
white teeth flashing. Scarlett had an uncertain feeling that he
had jockeyed her into this position.

"Did you have anything to do with this?" she snapped.

"I?" His brows went up in mock surprise. "You should know me
better. I never go about the world doing good deeds if I can avoid
it."



That night she sold the mills and all her interest in them to
Ashley. She did not lose thereby for Ashley refused to take
advantage of her first low offer and met the highest bid that she
had ever had for them. When she had signed the papers and the
mills were irrevocably gone and Melanie was passing small glasses
of wine to Ashley and Rhett to celebrate the transaction, Scarlett
felt bereft, as though she had sold one of her children.

The mills had been her darlings, her pride, the fruit of her small
grasping hands. She had started with one little mill in those
black days when Atlanta was barely struggling up from ruin and
ashes and want was staring her in the face. She had fought and
schemed and nursed them through the dark times when Yankee
confiscation loomed, when money was tight and smart men going to
the wall. And now when Atlanta was covering its scars and
buildings were going up everywhere and newcomers flocking to the
town every day, she had two fine mills, two lumber yards, a dozen
mule teams and convict labor to operate the business at low cost.
Bidding farewell to them was like closing a door forever on a part
of her life, a bitter, harsh part but one which she recalled with a
nostalgic satisfaction.

She had built up this business and now she had sold it and she was
oppressed with the certainty that, without her at the helm, Ashley
would lose it all--everything that she had worked to build. Ashley
trusted everyone and still hardly knew a two-by-four from a six-by-
eight. And now she would never be able to give him the benefit of
her advice--all because Rhett had told him that she liked to boss
everything.

"Oh, damn Rhett!" she thought and as she watched him the conviction
grew that he was at the bottom of all this. Just how and why she
did not know. He was talking to Ashley and his words brought her
up sharply.

"I suppose you'll turn the convicts back right away," he said.

Turn the convicts back? Why should there be any idea of turning
them back? Rhett knew perfectly well that the large profits from
the mills grew out of the cheap convict labor. And why did Rhett
speak with such certainty about what Ashley's future actions would
be? What did he know of him?

"Yes, they'll go back immediately," replied Ashley and he avoided
Scarlett's dumbfounded gaze.

"Have you lost your mind?" she cried. "You'll lose all the money
on the lease and what kind of labor can you get, anyway?"

"I'll use free darkies," said Ashley.

"Free darkies! Fiddle-dee-dee! You know what their wages will
cost and besides you'll have the Yankees on your neck every minute
to see if you're giving them chicken three times a day and tucking
them to sleep under eiderdown quilts. And if you give a lazy darky
a couple of licks to speed him up, you'll hear the Yankees scream
from here to Dalton and you'll end up in jail. Why, convicts are
the only--"

Melanie looked down into her lap at her twisted hands. Ashley
looked unhappy but obdurate. For a moment he was silent. Then his
gaze crossed Rhett's and it was as if he found understanding and
encouragement in Rhett's eyes--a glance that was not lost on
Scarlett.

"I won't work convicts, Scarlett," he said quietly.

"Well, sir!" her breath was taken away. "And why not? Are you
afraid people will talk about you like they do about me?"

Ashley raised his head.

"I'm not afraid of what people say as long as I'm right. And I
have never felt that convict labor was right."

"But why--"

"I can't make money from the enforced labor and misery of others."

"But you owned slaves!"

"They weren't miserable. And besides, I'd have freed them all when
Father died if the war hadn't already freed them. But this is
different, Scarlett. The system is open to too many abuses.
Perhaps you don't know it but I do. I know very well that Johnnie
Gallegher has killed at least one man at his camp. Maybe more--who
cares about one convict, more or less? He said the man was killed
trying to escape, but that's not what I've heard elsewhere. And I
know he works men who are too sick to work. Call it superstition,
but I do not believe that happiness can come from money made from
the sufferings of others."

"God's nightgown! You mean--goodness, Ashley, you didn't swallow
all the Reverend Wallace's bellowings about tainted money?"

"I didn't have to swallow it. I believed it long before he
preached on it."

"Then, you must think all my money is tainted," cried Scarlett
beginning to be angry. "Because I worked convicts and own saloon
property and--" She stopped short. Both the Wilkes looked
embarrassed and Rhett was grinning broadly. Damn him, thought
Scarlett, vehemently. He's thinking that I'm sticking my finger in
other people's pies again and so is Ashley. I'd like to crack
their heads together! She swallowed her wrath and tried to assume
an aloof air of dignity but with little success.

"Of course, it's immaterial to me," she said.

"Scarlett, don't think I'm criticizing you! I'm not. It's just
that we look at things in different ways and what is good for you
might not be good for me."

She suddenly wished that they were alone, wished ardently that
Rhett and Melanie were at the end of the earth, so she could cry
out: "But I want to look at things the way you look at them! Tell
me just what you mean, so I can understand and be like you!"

But with Melanie present, trembling with the distress of the scene,
and Rhett lounging, grinning at her, she could only say with as
much coolness and offended virtue as she could muster: "I'm sure
it's your own business, Ashley, and far be it from me to tell you
how to run it. But, I must say, I do not understand your attitude
or your remarks."

Oh, if they were only alone, so she would not be forced to say
these cool things to him, these words that were making him unhappy!

"I've offended you, Scarlett, and I did not mean to. You must
believe me and forgive me. There is nothing enigmatic in what I
said. It is only that I believe that money which comes in certain
ways seldom brings happiness."

"But you're wrong!" she cried, unable to restrain herself any
longer. "Look at me! You know how my money came. You know how
things were before I made my money! You remember that winter at
Tara when it was so cold and we were cutting up the carpets for
shoes and there wasn't enough to eat and we used to wonder how we
were going to give Beau and Wade an education. You remem--"

"I remember," said Ashley tiredly, "but I'd rather forget."

"Well, you can't say any of us were happy then, can you? And look
at us now! You've a nice home and a good future. And has anyone a
prettier house than mine or nicer clothes or finer horses? Nobody
sets as fine a table as me or gives nicer receptions and my
children have everything they want. Well, how did I get the money
to make it possible? Off trees? No, sir! Convicts and saloon
rentals and--"

"And don't forget murdering that Yankee," said Rhett softly. "He
really gave you your start."

Scarlett swung on him, furious words on her lips.

"And the money has made you very, very happy, hasn't it, darling?"
he asked, poisonously sweet.

Scarlett stopped short, her mouth open, and her eyes went swiftly
to the eyes of the other three. Melanie was almost crying with
embarrassment, Ashley was suddenly bleak and withdrawn and Rhett
was watching her over his cigar with impersonal amusement. She
started to cry out: "But of course, it's made me happy!"

But somehow, she could not speak.



CHAPTER LVIII


In the time that followed her illness Scarlett noticed a change in
Rhett and she was not altogether certain that she liked it. He was
sober and quiet and preoccupied. He was at home more often for
supper now and he was kinder to the servants and more affectionate
to Wade and Ella. He never referred to anything in their past,
pleasant or otherwise, and silently seemed to dare her to bring up
such subjects. Scarlett held her peace, for it was easier to let
well enough alone, and life went on smoothly enough, on the
surface. His impersonal courtesy toward her that had begun during
her convalescence continued and he did not fling softly drawled
barbs at her or sting her with sarcasm. She realized now that
though he had infuriated her with his malicious comments and roused
her to heated rejoinders, he had done it because he cared what she
did and said. Now she wondered if he cared about anything she did.
He was polite and disinterested and she missed his interest,
perverse though it had been, missed the old days of bickering and
retort.

He was pleasant to her now, almost as though she were a stranger;
but, as his eyes had once followed her, they now followed Bonnie.
It was as though the swift flood of his life had been diverted into
one narrow channel. Sometimes Scarlett thought that if Rhett had
given her one-half the attention and tenderness he lavished on
Bonnie, life would have been different. Sometimes it was hard to
smile when people said: "How Captain Butler idolizes that child!"
But, if she did not smile, people would think it strange and
Scarlett hated to acknowledge, even to herself, that she was
jealous of a little girl, especially when that little girl was her
favorite child. Scarlett always wanted to be first in the hearts
of those around her and it was obvious now that Rhett and Bonnie
would always be first with each other.

Rhett was out late many nights but he came home sober on these
nights. Often she heard him whistling softly to himself as he went
down the hall past her closed door. Sometimes men came home with
him in the late hours and sat talking in the dining room around the
brandy decanter. They were not the same men with whom he had drunk
the first year they were married. No rich Carpetbaggers, no
Scallawags, no Republicans came to the house now at his invitation.
Scarlett, creeping on tiptoe to the banister of the upstairs hall,
listened and, to her amazement, frequently heard the voices of Rene
Picard, Hugh Elsing, the Simmons boys and Andy Bonnell. And always
Grandpa Merriwether and Uncle Henry were there. Once, to her
astonishment, she heard the tones of Dr. Meade. And these men had
once thought hanging too good for Rhett!

This group was always linked in her mind with Frank's death, and
the late hours Rhett kept these days reminded her still more of the
times preceding the Klan foray when Frank lost his life. She
remembered with dread Rhett's remark that he would even join their
damned Klan to be respectable, though he hoped God would not lay so
heavy a penance on his shoulders. Suppose Rhett, like Frank--

One night when he was out later than usual she could stand the
strain no longer. When she heard the rasp of his key in the lock,
she threw on a wrapper and, going into the gas lit upper hall, met
him at the top of the stairs. His expression, absent, thoughtful,
changed to surprise when he saw her standing there.

"Rhett, I've got to know! I've got to know if you--if it's the
Klan--is that why you stay out so late? Do you belong--"

In the flaring gas light he looked at her incuriously and then he
smiled.

"You are way behind the times," he said. "There is no Klan in
Atlanta now. Probably not in Georgia. You've been listening to
the Klan outrage stories of your Scallawag and Carpetbagger
friends."

"No Klan? Are you lying to try to soothe me?"

"My dear, when did I ever try to soothe you? No, there is no Klan
now. We decided that it did more harm than good because it just
kept the Yankees stirred up and furnished more grist for the
slander mill of his excellency, Governor Bullock. He knows he can
stay in power just so long as he can convince the Federal
government and the Yankee newspapers that Georgia is seething with
rebellion and there's a Klansman hiding behind every bush. To keep
in power he's been desperately manufacturing Klan outrage stories
where none exist, telling of loyal Republicans being hung up by the
thumbs and honest darkies lynched for rape. But he's shooting at a
nonexistent target and he knows it. Thank you for your
apprehensions, but there hasn't been an active Klan since shortly
after I stopped being a Scallawag and became an humble Democrat."

Most of what he said about Governor Bullock went in one ear and out
the other for her mind was mainly occupied with relief that there
was no Klan any longer. Rhett would not be killed as Frank was
killed; she wouldn't lose her store or his money. But one word of
his conversation swam to the top of her mind. He had said "we,"
linking himself naturally with those he had once called the "Old
Guard."

"Rhett," she asked suddenly, "did you have anything to do with the
breaking up of the Klan?"

He gave her a long look and his eyes began to dance.

"My love, I did. Ashley Wilkes and I are mainly responsible."

"Ashley--and you?"

"Yes, platitudinously but truly, politics make strange bedfellows.
Neither Ashley nor I cared much for each other as bedfellows but--
Ashley never believed in the Klan because he's against violence of
any sort. And I never believed in it because it's damned
foolishness and not the way to get what we want. It's the one way
to keep the Yankees on our necks till Kingdom Come. And between
Ashley and me, we convinced the hot heads that watching, waiting
and working would get us further than nightshirts and fiery
crosses."

"You don't mean the boys actually took your advice when you--"

"When I was a speculator? A Scallawag? A consorter with Yankees?
You forget, Mrs. Butler, that I am now a Democrat in good standing,
devoted to my last drop of blood to recovering our beloved state
from the hands of her ravishers! My advice was good advice and
they took it. My advice in other political matters is equally
good. We have a Democratic majority in the legislature now,
haven't we? And soon, my love, we will have some of our good
Republican friends behind the bars. They are a bit too rapacious
these days, a bit too open."

"You'd help put them in jail? Why, they were your friends! They
let you in on that railroad-bond business that you made thousands
out of!"

Rhett grinned suddenly, his old mocking grin.

"Oh, I bear them no ill will. But I'm on the other side now and if
I can assist in any way in putting them where they belong, I'll do
it. And how that will redound to my credit! I know just enough
about the inside of some of these deals to be very valuable when
the legislature starts digging into them--and that won't be far
off, from the way things look now. They're going to investigate
the governor, too, and they'll put him in jail if they can. Better
tell your good friends the Gelerts and the Hundons to be ready to
leave town on a minute's notice, because if they can nab the
governor, they'll nab them too."

For too many years Scarlett had seen the Republicans, backed up by
the force of the Yankee Army, in power in Georgia to believe
Rhett's light words. The governor was too strongly entrenched for
any legislature to do anything to him, much less put him in jail.

"How you do run on," she observed.

"If he isn't put in jail, at least he won't be reelected. We're
going to have a Democratic governor next time, for a change."

"And I suppose you'll have something to do with it?" she questioned
sarcastically.

"My pet, I will. I am having something to do with it now. That's
why I stay out so late at nights. I'm working harder than I ever
worked with a shovel in the gold rush, trying to help get the
election organized. And--I know this will hurt you, Mrs. Butler,
but I am contributing plenty of money to the organization, too. Do
you remember telling me, years ago, in Frank's store, that it was
dishonest for me to keep the Confederate gold? At last I've come
to agree with you and the Confederate gold is being spent to get
the Confederates back into power."

"You're pouring money down a rat hole!"

"What! You call the Democratic party a rat hole?" His eyes mocked
her and then were quiet, expressionless. "It doesn't matter a damn
to me who wins this election. What does matter is that everyone
knows I've worked for it and that I've spent money on it. And
that'll be remembered in Bonnie's favor in years to come."

"I was almost afraid from your pious talk that you'd had a change
of heart, but I see you've got no more sincerity about the
Democrats than about anything else."

"Not a change of heart at all. Merely a change of hide. You might
possibly sponge the spots off a leopard but he'd remain a leopard,
just the same."

Bonnie, awakened by the sound of voices in the hall, called sleepily
but imperiously: "Daddy!" and Rhett started past Scarlett.

"Rhett, wait a minute. There's something else I want to tell you.
You must stop taking Bonnie around with you in the afternoons to
political meetings. It just doesn't look well. The idea of a
little girl at such places! And it makes you look so silly. I
never dreamed that you took her until Uncle Henry mentioned it, as
though he thought I knew and--"

He swung round on her and his face was hard.

"How can you read wrong in a little girl sitting on her father's
lap while he talks to friends? You may think it looks silly but it
isn't silly. People will remember for years that Bonnie sat on my
lap while I helped run the Republicans out of this state. People
will remember for years--" The hardness went out of his face and a
malicious light danced in his eyes. "Did you know that when people
ask her who she loves best, she says 'Daddy and the Demiquats,' and
who she hates most, she says: 'The Scallywags.' People, thank
God, remember things like that."

Scarlett's voice rose furiously. "And I suppose you tell her I'm a
Scallawag!"

"Daddy!" said the small voice, indignant now, and Rhett, still
laughing, went down the hall to his daughter.



That October Governor Bullock resigned his office and fled from
Georgia. Misuse of public funds, waste and corruption had reached
such proportions during his administration that the edifice was
toppling of its own weight. Even his own party was split, so great
had public indignation become. The Democrats had a majority in the
legislature now, and that meant just one thing. Knowing that he
was going to be investigated and fearing impeachment, Bullock did
not wait. He hastily and secretly decamped, arranging that his
resignation would not become public until he was safely in the
North.

When it was announced, a week after his flight, Atlanta was wild
with excitement and joy. People thronged the streets, men laughing
and shaking hands in congratulation, ladies kissing each other and
crying. Everybody gave parties in celebration and the fire
department was kept busy fighting the flames that spread from the
bonfires of jubilant small boys.

Almost out of the woods! Reconstruction's almost over! to be sure,
the acting governor was a Republican too, but the election was
coming up in December and there was no doubt in anyone's mind as to
what the result would be. And when the election came, despite the
frantic efforts of the Republicans, Georgia once more had a
Democratic governor.

There was joy then, excitement too, but of a different sort from
that which seized the town when Bullock took to his heels. This was
a more sober heartfelt joy, a deep-souled feeling of thanksgiving,
and the churches were filled as ministers reverently thanked God for
the deliverance of the state. There was pride too, mingled with the
elation and joy, pride that Georgia was back in the hands of her own
people again, in spite of all the administration in Washington could
do, in spite of the army, the Carpetbaggers, the Scallawags and the
native Republicans.

Seven times Congress had passed crushing acts against the state to
keep it a conquered province, three times the army had set aside
civil law. The negroes had frolicked through the legislature,
grasping aliens had mismanaged the government, private individuals
had enriched themselves from public funds. Georgia had been
helpless, tormented, abused, hammered down. But now, in spite of
them all, Georgia belonged to herself again and through the efforts
of her own people.

The sudden overturn of the Republicans did not bring joy to
everyone. There was consternation in the ranks of the Scallawags,
the Carpetbaggers and the Republicans. The Gelerts and Hundons,
evidently apprised of Bullock's departure before his resignation
became public, left town abruptly, disappearing into that oblivion
from which they had come. The other Carpetbaggers and Scallawags
who remained were uncertain, frightened, and they hovered together
for comfort, wondering what the legislative investigation would
bring to light concerning their own private affairs. They were not
insolent now. They were stunned, bewildered, afraid. And the
ladies who called on Scarlett said over and over:

"But who would have thought it would turn out this way? We thought
the governor was too powerful. We thought he was here to stay. We
thought--"

Scarlett was equally bewildered by the turn of events, despite
Rhett's warning as to the direction it would take. It was not that
she was sorry Bullock had gone and the Democrats were back again.
Though no one would have believed it she, too, felt a grim
happiness that the Yankee rule was at last thrown off. She
remembered all too vividly her struggles during those first days of
Reconstruction, her fears that the soldiers and the Carpetbaggers
would confiscate her money and her property. She remembered her
helplessness and her panic at her helplessness and her hatred of
the Yankees who had imposed this galling system upon the South.
And she had never stopped hating them. But, in trying to make the
best of things, in trying to obtain complete security, she had gone
with the conquerors. No matter how much she disliked them, she had
surrounded herself with them, cut herself off from her old friends
and her old ways of living. And now the power of the conquerors
was at an end. She had gambled on the continuance of the Bullock
regime and she had lost.

As she looked about her, that Christmas of 1871, the happiest
Christmas the state had known in over ten years, she was disquieted.
She could not help seeing that Rhett, once the most execrated man in
Atlanta, was now one of the most popular, for he had humbly recanted
his Republican heresies and given his time and money and labor and
thought to helping Georgia fight her way back. When he rode down
the streets, smiling, tipping his hat, the small blue bundle that
was Bonnie perched before him on his saddle, everyone smiled back,
spoke with enthusiasm and looked with affection on the little girl.
Whereas, she, Scarlett--



CHAPTER LIX


There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Bonnie Butler was running
wild and needed a firm hand but she was so general a favorite that
no one had the heart to attempt the necessary firmness. She had
first gotten out of control the months when she traveled with her
father. When she had been with Rhett in New Orleans and Charleston
she had been permitted to sit up as late as she pleased and had
gone to sleep in his arms in theaters, restaurants and at card
tables. Thereafter, nothing short of force would make her go to
bed at the same time as the obedient Ella. While she had been away
with him, Rhett had let her wear any dress she chose and, since
that time, she had gone into tantrums when Mammy tried to dress her
in dimity frocks and pinafores instead of blue taffeta and lace
collars.

There seemed no way to regain the ground which had been lost when
the child was away from home and later when Scarlett had been ill
and at Tara. As Bonnie grew older Scarlett tried to discipline
her, tried to keep her from becoming too headstrong and spoiled,
but with little success. Rhett always sided with the child, no
matter how foolish her desires or how outrageous her behavior. He
encouraged her to talk and treated her as an adult, listening to
her opinions with apparent seriousness and pretending to be guided
by them. As a result, Bonnie interrupted her elders whenever she
pleased and contradicted her father and put him in his place. He
only laughed and would not permit Scarlett even to slap the little
girl's hand by way of reprimand.

"If she wasn't such a sweet, darling thing, she'd be impossible,"
thought Scarlett ruefully, realizing that she had a child with a
will equal to her own. "She adores Rhett and he could make her
behave better if he wanted to."

But Rhett showed no inclination to make Bonnie behave. Whatever
she did was right and if she wanted the moon she could have it, if
he could reach it for her. His pride in her beauty, her curls, her
dimples, her graceful little gestures was boundless. He loved her
pertness, her high spirits and the quaint sweet manner she had of
showing her love for him. For all her spoiled and willful ways she
was such a lovable child that he lacked the heart to try to curb
her. He was her god, the center of her small world, and that was
too precious for him to risk losing by reprimands.

She clung to him like a shadow. She woke him earlier than he cared
to wake, sat beside him at the table, eating alternately from his
plate and her own, rode in front of him on his horse and permitted
no one but Rhett to undress her and put her to sleep in the small
bed beside his.

It amused and touched Scarlett to see the iron hand with which her
small child ruled her father. Who would have thought that Rhett,
of all people, would take fatherhood so seriously? But sometimes a
dart of jealousy went through Scarlett because Bonnie, at the age
of four, understood Rhett better than she had ever understood him
and could manage him better than she had ever managed him.

When Bonnie was four years old, Mammy began to grumble about the
impropriety of a girl child riding "a-straddle in front of her pa
wid her dress flyin' up." Rhett lent an attentive ear to this
remark, as he did to all Mammy's remarks about the proper raising
of little girls. The result was a small brown and white Shetland
pony with a long silky mane and tail and a tiny sidesaddle with
silver trimmings. Ostensibly the pony was for all three children
and Rhett bought a saddle for Wade too. But Wade infinitely
preferred his St. Bernard dog and Ella was afraid of all animals.
So the pony became Bonnie's own and was named "Mr. Butler." The
only flaw in Bonnie's possessive joy was that she could not still
ride astride like her father, but after he had explained how much
more difficult it was to ride on the sidesaddle, she was content
and learned rapidly. Rhett's pride in her good seat and her good
hands was enormous.

"Wait till she's old enough to hunt," he boasted. "There'll be no
one like her on any field. I'll take her to Virginia then. That's
where the real hunting is. And Kentucky where they appreciate good
riders."

When it came to making her riding habit, as usual she had her
choice of colors and as usual chose blue.

"But, my darling! Not that blue velvet! The blue velvet is for a
party dress for me," laughed Scarlett. "A nice black broadcloth is
what little girls wear." Seeing the small black brows coming
together: "For Heaven's sake, Rhett, tell her how unsuitable it
would be and how dirty it will get."

"Oh, let her have the blue velvet. If it gets dirty, we'll make
her another one," said Rhett easily.

So Bonnie had her blue velvet habit with a skirt that trailed down
the pony's side and a black hat with a red plume in it, because
Aunt Melly's stories of Jeb Stuart's plume had appealed to her
imagination. On days that were bright and clear the two could be
seen riding down Peachtree Street, Rhett reining in his big black
horse to keep pace with the fat pony's gait. Sometimes they went
tearing down the quiet roads about the town, scattering chickens
and dogs and children, Bonnie beating Mr. Butler with her crop, her
tangled curls flying, Rhett holding in his horse with a firm hand
that she might think Mr. Butler was winning the race.

When he had assured himself of her seat, her hands, her utter
fearlessness, Rhett decided that the time had come for her to learn
to make the low jumps that were within the reach of Mr. Butler's
short legs. To this end, he built a hurdle in the back yard and
paid Wash, one of Uncle Peter's small nephews, twenty-five cents a
day to teach Mr. Butler to jump. He began with a bar two inches
from the ground and gradually worked up the height to a foot.

This arrangement met with the disapproval of the three parties
concerned, Wash, Mr. Butler and Bonnie. Wash was afraid of horses
and only the princely sum offered induced him to take the stubborn
pony over the bar dozens of times a day; Mr. Butler, who bore with
equanimity having his tail pulled by his small mistress and his
hooves examined constantly, felt that the Creator of ponies had not
intended him to put his fat body over the bar; Bonnie, who could
not bear to see anyone else upon her pony, danced with impatience
while Mr. Butler was learning his lessons.

When Rhett finally decided that the pony knew his business well
enough to trust Bonnie upon him, the child's excitement was
boundless. She made her first jump with flying colors and,
thereafter, riding abroad with her father held no charms for her.
Scarlett could not help laughing at the pride and enthusiasm of
father and daughter. She thought, however, that once the novelty
had passed, Bonnie would turn to other things and the neighborhood
would have some peace. But this sport did not pall. There was a
bare track worn from the arbor at the far end of the yard to the
hurdle, and all morning long the yard resounded with excited yells.
Grandpa Merriwether, who had made the overland trip in 1849, said
that the yells sounded just like an Apache after a successful
scalping.

After the first week, Bonnie begged for a higher bar, a bar that
was a foot and a half from the ground.

"When you are six years old," said Rhett. "Then you'll be big
enough for a higher jump and I'll buy you a bigger horse. Mr.
Butler's legs aren't long enough."

"They are, too, I jumped Aunt Melly's rose bushes and they are
'normously high!"

"No, you must wait," said Rhett, firm for once. But the firmness
gradually faded away before her incessant importunings and
tantrums.

"Oh, all right," he said with a laugh one morning and moved the
narrow white cross bar higher. "If you fall off, don't cry and
blame me!"

"Mother!" screamed Bonnie, turning her head up toward Scarlett's
bedroom. "Mother! Watch me! Daddy says I can!"

Scarlett, who was combing her hair, came to the window and smiled
down at the tiny excited figure, so absurd in the soiled blue
habit.

"I really must get her another habit," she thought. "Though Heaven
only knows how I'll make her give up that dirty one."

"Mother, watch!"

"I'm watching dear," said Scarlett smiling.

As Rhett lifted the child and set her on the pony, Scarlett called
with a swift rush of pride at the straight back and the proud set
of the head,

"You're mighty pretty, precious!"

"So are you," said Bonnie generously and, hammering a heel into Mr.
Butler's ribs, she galloped down the yard toward the arbor.

"Mother, watch me take this one!" she cried, laying on the crop.

WATCH ME TAKE THIS ONE!

Memory rang a bell far back in Scarlett's mind. There was
something ominous about those words. What was it? Why couldn't
she remember? She looked down at her small daughter, so lightly
poised on the galloping pony and her brow wrinkled as a chill swept
swiftly through her breast. Bonnie came on with a rush, her crisp
black curls jerking, her blue eyes blazing.

"They are like Pa's eyes," thought Scarlett, "Irish blue eyes and
she's just like him in every way."

And, as she thought of Gerald, the memory for which she had been
fumbling came to her swiftly, came with the heart stopping clarity
of summer lightning, throwing, for an instant, a whole countryside
into unnatural brightness. She could hear an Irish voice singing,
hear the hard rapid pounding of hooves coming up the pasture hill
at Tara, hear a reckless voice, so like the voice of her child:
"Ellen! Watch me take this one!"

"No!" she cried. "No! Oh, Bonnie, stop!"

Even as she leaned from the window there was a fearful sound of
splintering wood, a hoarse cry from Rhett, a melee of blue velvet
and flying hooves on the ground. Then Mr. Butler scrambled to his
feet and trotted off with an empty saddle.



On the third night after Bonnie's death, Mammy waddled slowly up
the kitchen steps of Melanie's house. She was dressed in black
from her huge men's shoes, slashed to permit freedom for her toes,
to her black head rag. Her blurred old eyes were bloodshot and red
rimmed, and misery cried out in every line of her mountainous
figure. Her face was puckered in the sad bewilderment of an old
ape but there was determination in her jaw.

She spoke a few soft words to Dilcey who nodded kindly, as though
an unspoken armistice existed in their old feud. Dilcey put down
the supper dishes she was holding and went quietly through the
pantry toward the dining room. In a minute Melanie was in the
kitchen, her table napkin in her hand, anxiety in her face.

"Miss Scarlet isn't--"

"Miss Scarlett bearin' up, same as allus," said Mammy heavily. "Ah
din' ten ter 'sturb yo' supper, Miss Melly. Ah kin wait tell you
thoo ter tell you whut Ah got on mah mine."

"Supper can wait," said Melanie. "Dilcey, serve the rest of the
supper. Mammy, come with me."

Mammy waddled after her, down the hall past the dining room where
Ashley sat at the head of the table, his own little Beau beside him
and Scarlett's two children opposite, making a great clatter with
their soup spoons. The happy voices of Wade and Ella filled the
room. It was like a picnic for them to spend so long a visit with
Aunt Melly. Aunt Melly was always so kind and she was especially
so now. The death of their younger sister had affected them very
little. Bonnie had fallen off her pony and Mother had cried a long
time and Aunt Melly had taken them home with her to play in the
back yard with Beau and have tea cakes whenever they wanted them.

Melanie led the way to the small book-lined sitting room, shut the
door and motioned Mammy to the sofa.

"I was going over right after supper," she said. "Now that Captain
Butler's mother has come, I suppose the funeral will be tomorrow
morning."

"De fune'l. Dat's jes' it," said Mammy. "Miss Melly, we's all in
deep trouble an' Ah's come ter you fer he'p. Ain' nuthin' but
weery load, honey, nuthin' but weery load."

"Has Miss Scarlett collapsed?" questioned Melanie worriedly. "I've
hardly seen her since Bonnie-- She has been in her room and
Captain Butler has been out of the house and--"

Suddenly tears began to flow down Mammy's black face. Melanie sat
down beside her and patted her arm and, after a moment, Mammy
lifted the hem of her black skirt and dried her eyes.

"You got ter come he'p us, Miss Melly. Ah done de bes' Ah kin but
it doan do no good."

"Miss Scarlett--"

Mammy straightened.

"Miss Melly, you knows Miss Scarlett well's Ah does. Whut dat
chile got ter stan', de good Lawd give her strent ter stan'.
Disyere done broke her heart but she kin stan' it. It's Mist'
Rhett Ah come 'bout."

"I have so wanted to see him but whenever I've been there, he has
either been downtown or locked in his room with-- And Scarlett has
looked like a ghost and wouldn't speak-- Tell me quickly, Mammy.
You know I'll help if I can."

Mammy wiped her nose on the back of her hand.

"Ah say Miss Scarlett kin stan' whut de Lawd sen', kase she done
had ter stan' a-plen'y, but Mist' Rhett--Miss Melly, he ain' never
had ter stan' nuthin' he din' wanter stan', not nuthin'. It's him
Ah come ter see you 'bout."

"But--"

"Miss Melly, you got ter come home wid me, dis evenin'." There was
urgency in Mammy's voice. "Maybe Mist' Rhett lissen ter you. He
allus did think a heap of yo' 'pinion."

"Oh, Mammy, what is it? What do you mean?"

Mammy squared her shoulders.

"Miss Melly, Mist' Rhett done--done los' his mine. He woan let us
put Lil Miss away."

"Lost his mind? Oh, Mammy, no!"

"Ah ain' lyin'. It's de Gawd's truff. He ain' gwine let us buhy
dat chile. He done tole me so hisseff, not mo'n an hour ago."

"But he can't--he isn't--"

"Dat's huccome Ah say he los' his mine."

"But why--"

"Miss Melly, Ah tell you eve'ything. Ah oughtn' tell nobody, but
you is our fambly an' you is de onlies' one Ah kin tell. Ah tell
you eve'ything. You knows whut a sto' he set by dat chile. Ah
ain' never seed no man, black or w'ite, set sech a sto' by any
chile. Look lak he go plumb crazy w'en Doctah Meade say her neck
broke. He grab his gun an' he run right out an' shoot dat po' pony
an', fo' Gawd, Ah think he gwine shoot hisseff. Ah wuz plumb
'stracted whut wid Miss Scarlett in a swoon an' all de neighbors in
an' outer de house an' Mist' Rhett cahyin' on an' jes' holin' dat
chile an' not even lettin' me wash her lil face whar de grabble cut
it. An' w'en Miss Scarlett come to, Ah think, bress Gawd! Now dey
kin comfo't each other."

Again the tears began to fall but this time Mammy did not even wipe
them away.

"But w'en she come to, she go inter de room whar he settin', holin'
Miss Bonnie, an' she say: 'Gimme mah baby whut you kilt.'"

"Oh, no! She couldn't!"

"Yas'm. Dat whut she say. She say: 'You kilt her.' An' Ah felt
so sorry fer Mist' Rhett Ah bust out cryin', kase he look lak a
whup houn'. An' Ah say: 'Give dat chile ter its mammy. Ah ain'
gwine have no sech goin's on over mah Lil Miss.' An' Ah tek de
chile away frum him an' tek her inter her room an' wash her face.
An' Ah hear dem talkin' an' it lak ter tuhn mah blood cole, whut
dey say. Miss Scarlett wuz callin' him a mudderer fer lettin' her
try ter jump dat high, an' him sayin' Miss Scarlett hadn' never
keered nuthin' 'bout Miss Bonnie nor none of her chillun. . . ."

"Stop, Mammy! Don't tell me any more. It isn't right for you to
tell me this!" cried Melanie, her mind shrinking away from the
picture Mammy's words evoked.

"Ah knows Ah got no bizness tellin' you, but mah heart too full ter
know jes' whut not ter say. Den he tuck her ter de unnertaker's
hisseff an' he bring her back an' he put her in her baid in his
room. An' w'en Miss Scarlett say she b'long in de pahlor in de
coffin, Ah thought Mist' Rhett gwine hit her. An' he say, right
cole lak: 'She b'long in mah room.' An' he tuhn ter me an' he
say: 'Mammy, you see dat she stay right hyah tell Ah gits back.'
Den he light outer de house on de hawse an' he wuz gone tell 'bout
sundown. W'en he come t'arin' home, Ah seed dat he'd been drinkin'
an' drinkin' heavy, but he wuz cahyin' it well's usual. He fling
inter de house an' not even speak ter Miss Scarlett or Miss Pitty
or any of de ladies as wuz callin', but he fly up de steps an'
th'ow open de do' of his room an' den he yell for me. W'en Ah
comes runnin' as fas' as Ah kin, he wuz stan'in' by de baid an' it
wuz so dahk in de room Ah couldn' sceercely see him, kase de
shutters wuz done drawed.

"An' he say ter me, right fierce lak: 'Open dem shutters. It's
dahk in hyah.' An' Ah fling dem open an' he look at me an', fo'
Gawd, Miss Melly, mah knees 'bout give way, kase he look so
strange. Den he say: 'Bring lights. Bring lots of lights. An'
keep dem buhnin'. An' doan draw no shades an' no shutters. Doan
you know Miss Bonnie's 'fraid of de dahk?'"

Melanie's horror struck eyes met Mammy's and Mammy nodded ominously.

"Dat's whut he say. 'Miss Bonnie's 'fraid of de dahk.'"

Mammy shivvered.

"W'en Ah gits him a dozen candles, he say 'Git!' An' den he lock
de do' an' dar he set wid Lil Miss, an' he din' open de do' fer
Miss Scarlett even w'en she beat an' hollered ter him. An' dat's
de way it been fer two days. He woan say nuthin' 'bout de fune'l,
an' in de mawnin' he lock de do' an' git on his hawse an' go off
ter town. An' he come back at sundown drunk an' lock hisseff in
agin, an' he ain' et nuthin' or slept none. An' now his ma, Ole
Miss Butler, she come frum Cha'ston fer de fune'l an' Miss Suellen
an' Mist' Will, dey come frum Tara, but Mist' Rhett woan talk ter
none of dem. Oh, Miss Melly, it been awful! An' it's gwine be
wuss, an' folks gwine talk sumpin' scan'lous.

"An' den, dis evenin'," Mammy paused and again wiped her nose on
her hand. "Dis evenin' Miss Scarleft ketch him in de upstairs hall
w'en he come in, an' she go in de room wid him an' she say: 'De
fune'l set fer termorrer mawnin'.' An' he say: 'Do dat an' Ah
kills you termorrer.'"

"Oh, he must have lost his mind!"

"Yas'm. An' den dey talks kinder low an' Ah doan hear all whut dey
say, 'cept he say agin 'bout Miss Bonnie bein' sceered of de dahk
an' de grabe pow'ful dahk. An' affer aw'ile, Miss Scarlett say:
'You is a fine one ter tek on so, affer killin' her ter please yo'
pride.' An' he say: 'Ain' you got no mercy?' An' she say: 'No.
An' Ah ain' got no chile, needer. An' Ah'm wo'out wid de way you
been ackin' sence Bonnie wuz kilt. You is a scan'al ter de town.
You been drunk all de time an' ef you doan think Ah knows whar you
been spendin' yo' days, you is a fool. Ah knows you been down ter
dat creeter's house, dat Belle Watling.'"

"Oh, Mammy, no!"

"Yas'm. Dat whut she said. An', Miss Melly, it's de truff.
Niggers knows a heap of things quicker dan w'ite folks, an' Ah
knowed dat's whar he been but Ah ain' said nuthin' 'bout it. An'
he doan deny it. He say: 'Yas'm, dat's whar Ah been an' you neen
tek on, kase you doan give a damn. A bawdy house is a haben of
refuge affer dis house of hell. An' Belle is got one of de worl's
kines' hearts. She doan th'ow it up ter me dat Ah done kilt mah
chile.'"

"Oh," cried Melanie, stricken to the heart.

Her own life was so pleasant, so sheltered, so wrapped about with
people who loved her, so full of kindness that what Mammy told her
was almost beyond comprehension or belief. Yet there crawled into
her mind a memory, a picture which she hastily put from her, as she
would put from her the thought of another's nudity. Rhett had
spoken of Belle Watling the day he cried with his head on her
knees. But he loved Scarlett. She could not have been mistaken
that day. And of course, Scarlett loved him. What had come
between them? How could a husband and a wife cut each other to
pieces with such sharp knives?

Mammy took up her story heavily.

"Affer a w'ile, Miss Scarlett come outer de room, w'ite as a sheet
but her jaw set, an' she see me stan'in' dar an' she say: 'De
fune'l be termorrer, Mammy.' An' she pass me by lak a ghos'. Den
mah heart tuhn over, kase whut Miss Scarlett say, she mean. An'
whut Mist' Rhett say, he mean too. An' he say he kill her ef she
do dat. Ah wuz plumb 'stracted, Miss Melly, kase Ah done had
sumpin' on mah conscience all de time an' it weighin' me down.
Miss Melly, it wuz me as sceered Lil Miss of de dahk."

"Oh, but Mammy, it doesn't matter--not now."

"Yas'm, it do. Dat whut de whole trouble. An' it come ter me Ah
better tell Mist' Rhett even ef he kill me, kase it on mah
conscience. So Ah slip in de do' real quick, fo' he kin lock it,
an' Ah say: 'Mist' Rhett, Ah's come ter confess.' An' he swung
roun' on me lak a crazy man an' say: 'Git!' An', fo' Gawd, Ah
ain' never been so sceered! But Ah say: 'Please, suh, Mist'
Rhett, let me tell you. It's 'bout ter kill me. It wuz me as
sceered Lil Miss of de dahk.' An' den, Miss Melly, Ah put mah haid
down an' waited fer him ter hit me. But he din' say nuthin'. An'
An say: 'Ah din' mean no hahm. But, Mist' Rhett, dat chile din'
have no caution an' she wuzn' sceered of nuthin'. An' she wuz
allus gittin' outer baid affer eve'ybody sleep an runnin' roun' de
house barefoot. An' it worrit me, kase Ah 'fraid she hu't herseff.
So Ah tells her dar's ghos'es an' buggerboos in de dahk.'

"An' den--Miss Melly, you know whut he done? His face got right
gentle lak an' he come ter me an' put his han' on mah arm. Dat's
de fust time he ever done dat. An' he say: 'She wuz so brave,
wuzn' she? 'Cept fer de dahk, she wuzn' sceered of nuthin'.' An'
wen Ah bust out cryin' he say: 'Now, Mammy,' an' he pat me. 'Now,
Mammy, doan you cahy on so. Ah's glad you tole me. Ah knows you
love Miss Bonnie an' kase you love her, it doan matter. It's whut
de heart is dat matter.' Well'm dat kinder cheered me up, so Ah
ventu' ter say: 'Mist Rhett, suh, what 'bout de fune'l?' Den he
tuhn on me lak a wile man an' his eyes glitter an' he say: 'Good
Gawd, Ah thought you'd unnerstan' even ef nobody else din'! Does
you think Ah'm gwine ter put mah chile away in de dahk w'en she so
sceered of it? Right now Ah kin hear de way she uster scream w'en
she wake up in de dahk. Ah ain' gwine have her sceered.' Miss
Melly, den Ah know he los' his mine. He drunk an' he need sleep
an' sumpin' ter eat but dat ain' all. He plumb crazy. He jes'
push me outer de do' an' say: 'Git de hell outer hyah!'

"Ah goes downstairs an' Ah gits ter thinkin' dat he say dar ain'
gwine be no fune'l an' Miss Scarlett say it be termorrer mawnin'
an' he say dar be shootin'. An' all de kin-folks in de house an'
all de neighbors already gabblin' 'bout it lak a flock of guinea
hens, an' Ah thought of you, Miss Melly. You got ter come he'p
us."

"Oh, Mammy, I couldn't intrude!"

"Ef you kain, who kin?"

"But what could I do, Mammy?"

"Miss Melly, Ah doan know. But you kin do sumpin'. You kin talk
ter Mist' Rhett an' maybe he lissen ter you. He set a gret sto' by
you, Miss Melly. Maybe you doan know it, but he do. Ah done hear
him say time an' agin, you is de onlies' gret lady he knows."

"But--"

Melanie rose to her feet, confused, her heart quailing at the
thought of confronting Rhett. The thought of arguing with a man as
grief crazed as the one Mammy depicted made her go cold. The
thought of entering that brightly lighted room where lay the little
girl she loved so much wrung her heart. What could she do? What
could she say to Rhett that would ease his grief and bring him back
to reason? For a moment she stood irresolute and through the
closed door came the sound of her boy's treble laughter. Like a
cold knife in her heart came the thought of him dead. Suppose her
Beau were lying upstairs, his little body cold and still, his merry
laughter hushed.

"Oh," she cried aloud, in fright, and in her mind she clutched him
close to her heart. She knew how Rhett felt. If Beau were dead,
how could she put him away, alone with the wind and the rain and
the darkness?

"Oh! Poor, poor Captain Butler!" she cried. "I'll go to him now,
right away."

She sped back to the dining room, said a few soft words to Ashley
and surprised her little boy by hugging him close to her and
kissing his blond curls passionately.

She left the house without a hat, her dinner napkin still clutched
in her hand, and the pace she set was hard for Mammy's old legs.
Once in Scarlett's front hall, she bowed briefly to the gathering
in the library, to the frightened Miss Pittypat, the stately old
Mrs. Butler, Will and Suellen. She went up the stairs swiftly,
with Mammy panting behind her. For a moment, she paused before
Scarlett's closed door but Mammy hissed, "No'm, doan do dat."

Down the hall Melly went, more slowly now, and stopped in front of
Rhett's room. She stood irresolutely for a moment as though she
longed to take flight. Then, bracing herself, like a small soldier
going into battle, she knocked on the door and called softly:
"Please let me in, Captain Butler. It's Mrs. Wilkes. I want to
see Bonnie."

The door opened quickly and Mammy, shrinking back into the shadows
of the hall, saw Rhett huge and dark against the blazing background
of candles. He was swaying on his feet and Mammy could smell the
whisky on his breath. He looked down at Melly for a moment and
then, taking her by the arm, he pulled her into the room and shut
the door.

Mammy edged herself stealthily to a chair beside the door and sank
into it wearily, her shapeless body overflowing it. She sat still,
weeping silently and praying. Now and then she lifted the hem of
her dress and wiped her eyes. Strain her ears as hard as she
might, she could hear no words from the room, only a low broken
humming sound.

Alter an interminable period, the door cracked open and Melly's
face white and strained, appeared.

"Bring me a pot of coffee, quickly, and some sandwiches."

When the devil drove, Mammy could be as swift as a lithe black
sixteen-year-old and her curiosity to get into Rhett's room made
her work faster. But her hope turned to disappointment when Melly
merely opened the door a crack and took the tray. For a long time
Mammy strained her sharp ears but she could distinguish nothing
except the clatter of silver on china, and the muffled soft tones
of Melanie's voice. Then she heard the creaking of the bed as a
heavy body fell upon it and, soon after, the sound of boots
dropping to the floor. After an interval, Melanie appeared in the
doorway but, strive though she might, Mammy could not see past her
into the room. Melanie looked tired and there were tears
glistening on her lashes but her face was serene again.

"Go tell Miss Scarlett that Captain Butler is quite willing for the
funeral to take place tomorrow morning," she whispered.

"Bress Gawd!" ejaculated Mammy. "How on uth--"

"Don't talk so loud. He's going to sleep. And, Mammy, tell Miss
Scarlett, too, that I'll be here all night and you bring me some
coffee. Bring it here."

"Ter disyere room?"

"Yes, I promised Captain Butler that if he would go to sleep I
would sit up by her all night. Now go tell Miss Scarlett, so she
won't worry any more."

Mammy started off down the hall, her weight shaking the floor, her
relieved heart singing "Halleluja! Hallelujah!" She paused
thoughtfully outside of Scarlett's door, her mind in a ferment of
thankfulness and curiosity.

"How Miss Melley done it beyon' me. De angels fight on her side,
Ah specs. Ah'll tell Miss Scarlett de fune'l termorrer but Ah
specs Ah better keep hid dat Miss Melly settin' up wid Lil Miss.
Miss Scarlett ain' gwine lak dat a-tall."



CHAPTER LX


Something was wrong with the world, a somber, frightening wrongness
that pervaded everything like a dark impenetrable mist, stealthily
closing around Scarlett. This wrongness went even deeper than
Bonnie's death, for now the first unbearable anguish was fading
into resigned acceptance of her loss. Yet this eerie sense of
disaster to come persisted, as though something black and hooded
stood just at her shoulder, as though the ground beneath her feet
might turn to quicksand as she trod upon it.

She had never before known this type of fear. All her life her
feet had been firmly planted in common sense and the only things
she had ever feared had been the things she could see, injury,
hunger, poverty, loss of Ashley's love. Unanalytical she was
trying to analyze now and with no success. She had lost her
dearest child but she could stand that, somehow, as she had stood
other crushing losses. She had her health, she had as much money
as she could wish and she still had Ashley, though she saw less and
less of him these days. Even the constraint which had been between
them since the day of Melanie's ill-starred surprise party did not
worry her, for she knew it would pass. No, her fear was not of
pain or hunger or loss of love. Those fears had never weighed her
down as this feeling of wrongness was doing--this blighting fear
that was oddly like that which she knew in her old nightmare, a
thick, swimming mist through which she ran with bursting heart, a
lost child seeking a haven that was hidden from her.

She remembered how Rhett had always been able to laugh her out of
her fears. She remembered the comfort of his broad brown chest and
his strong arms. And so she turned to him with eyes that really
saw him for the first time in weeks. And the change she saw
shocked her. This man was not going to laugh, nor was he going to
comfort her.

For some time after Bonnie's death she had been too angry with him,
too preoccupied with her own grief to do more than speak politely
in front of the servants. She had been too busy remembering the
swift running patter of Bonnie's feet and her bubbling laugh to
think that he, too, might be remembering and with pain even greater
than her own. Throughout these weeks they had met and spoken as
courteously as strangers meeting in the impersonal walls of a
hotel, sharing the same roof, the same table, but never sharing the
thoughts of each other.

Now that she was frightened and lonely, she would have broken
through this barrier if she could, but she found that he was
holding her at arm's length, as though he wished to have no words
with her that went beneath the surface. Now that her anger was
fading she wanted to tell him that she held him guiltless of
Bonnie's death. She wanted to cry in his arms and say that she,
too, had been overly proud of the child's horsemanship, overly
indulgent to her wheedlings. Now she would willingly have humbled
herself and admitted that she had only hurled that accusation at
him out of her misery, hoping by hurting him to alleviate her own
hurt. But there never seemed an opportune moment. He looked at
her out of black blank eyes that made no opportunity for her to
speak. And apologies, once postponed, became harder and harder to
make, and finally impossible.

She wondered why this should be. Rhett was her husband and between
them there was the unbreakable bond of two people who have shared
the same bed, begotten and borne a loved child and seen that child,
too soon, laid away in the dark. Only in the arms of the father of
that child could she find comfort, in the exchange of memories and
grief that might hurt at first but would help to heal. But, now,
as matters stood between them, she would as soon go to the arms of
a complete stranger.

He was seldom at home. When they did sit down to supper together,
he was usually drunk. He was not drinking as he had formerly,
becoming increasingly more polished and biting as the liquor took
hold of him, saying amusing, malicious things that made her laugh
in spite of herself. Now he was silently, morosely drunk and, as
the evenings progressed, soddenly drunk. Sometimes, in the early
hours of the dawn, she heard him ride into the back yard and beat
on the door of the servants' house so that Pork might help him up
the back stairs and put him to bed. Put him to bed! Rhett who had
always drunk others under the table without turning a hair and then
put them to bed.

He was untidy now, where once he had been well groomed, and it took
all Pork's scandalized arguing even to make him change his linen
before supper. Whisky was showing in his face and the hard line of
his long jaw was being obscured under an unhealthy bloat and puffs
rising under his bloodshot eyes. His big body with its hard
swelling muscles looked soft and slack and his waist line began to
thicken.

Often he did not come home at all or even send word that he would
be away overnight. Of course, he might be snoring drunkenly in
some room above a saloon, but Scarlett always believed that he was
at Belle Watling's house on these occasions. Once she had seen
Belle in a store, a coarse overblown woman now, with most of her
good looks gone. But, for all her paint and flashy clothes, she
was buxom and almost motherly looking. Instead of dropping her
eyes or glaring defiantly, as did other light women when confronted
by ladies, Belle gave her stare for stare, searching her face with
an intent, almost pitying look that brought a flush to Scarlett's
cheek.

But she could not accuse him now, could not rage at him, demand
fidelity or try to shame him, any more than she could bring herself
to apologize for accusing him of Bonnie's death. She was clutched
by a bewildered apathy, an unhappiness that she could not
understand, an unhappiness that went deeper than anything she had
ever known. She was lonely and she could never remember being so
lonely before. Perhaps she had never had the time to be very
lonely until now. She was lonely and afraid and there was no one
to whom she could turn, no one except Melanie. For now, even
Mammy, her mainstay, had gone back to Tara. Gone permanently.

Mammy gave no explanation for her departure. Her tired old eyes
looked sadly at Scarlett when she asked for the train fare home.
To Scarlett's tears and pleading that she stay, Mammy only
answered: "Look ter me lak Miss Ellen say ter me: 'Mammy, come
home. Yo' wuk done finish.' So Ah's gwine home."

Rhett, who had listened to the talk, gave Mammy the money and
patted her arm.

"You're right, Mammy. Miss Ellen is right. Your work here is
done. Go home. Let me know if you ever need anything." And as
Scarlett broke into renewed indignant commands: "Hush, you fool!
Let her go! Why should anyone want to stay in this house--now?"

There was such a savage bright glitter in his eyes when he spoke
that Scarlett shrank from him, frightened.

"Dr. Meade, do you think he can--can have lost his mind?" she
questioned afterwards, driven to the doctor by her own sense of
helplessness.

"No," said the doctor, "but he's drinking like a fish and will kill
himself if he keeps it up. He loved the child, Scarlett, and I
guess he drinks to forget about her. Now, my advice to you, Miss,
is to give him another baby just as quickly as you can."

"Hah!" thought Scarlett bitterly, as she left his office. That was
easier said than done. She would gladly have another child,
several children, if they would take that look out of Rhett's eyes
and fill up the aching spaces in her own heart. A boy who had
Rhett's dark handsomeness and another little girl. Oh, for another
girl, pretty and gay and willful and full of laughter, not like the
giddy-brained Ella. Why, oh, why couldn't God have taken Ella if
He had to take one of her children? Ella was no comfort to her,
now that Bonnie was gone. But Rhett did not seem to want any other
children. At least he never came to her bedroom though now the
door was never locked and usually invitingly ajar. He did not seem
to care. He did not seem to care for anything now except whisky
and that blowzy red-haired woman.

He was bitter now, where he had been pleasantly jeering, brutal
where his thrusts had once been tempered with humor. After Bonnie
died, many of the good ladies of the neighborhood who had been won
over to him by his charming manners with his daughter were anxious
to show him kindness. They stopped him on the street to give him
their sympathy and spoke to him from over their hedges, saying that
they understood. But now that Bonnie, the reason for his good
manners, was gone the manners went to. He cut the ladies and their
well-meant condolences off shortly, rudely.

But, oddly enough, the ladies were not offended. They understood,
or thought they understood. When he rode home in the twilight
almost too drunk to stay in the saddle, scowling at those who spoke
to him, the ladies said "Poor thing!" and redoubled their efforts
to be kind and gentle. They felt very sorry for him, broken
hearted and riding home to no better comfort than Scarlett.

Everybody knew how cold and heartless she was. Everybody was
appalled at the seeming ease with which she had recovered from
Bonnie's death, never realizing or caring to realize the effort
that lay behind that seeming recovery. Rhett had the town's
tenderest sympathy and he neither knew nor cared. Scarlett had the
town's dislike and, for once, she would have welcomed the sympathy
of old friends.

Now, none of her old friends came to the house, except Aunt Pitty,
Melanie and Ashley. Only the new friends came calling in their
shining carriages, anxious to tell her of their sympathy, eager to
divert her with gossip about other new friends in whom she was not
at all interested. All these "new people," strangers, every one!
They didn't know her. They would never know her. They had no
realization of what her life had been before she reached her
present safe eminence in her mansion on Peachtree Street. They
didn't care to talk about what their lives had been before they
attained stiff brocades and victorias with fine teams of horses.
They didn't know of her struggles, her privations, all the things
that made this great house and pretty clothes and silver and
receptions worth having. They didn't know. They didn't care,
these people from God-knows-where who seemed to live always on the
surface of things, who had no common memories of war and hunger and
fighting, who had no common roots going down into the same red
earth.

Now in her loneliness, she would have liked to while away the
afternoons with Maybelle or Fanny or Mrs. Elsing or Mrs. Whiting or
even that redoubtable old warrior, Mrs. Merriwether. Or Mrs.
Bonnell or--or any of her old friends and neighbors. For they
knew. They had known war and terror and fire, had seen dear ones
dead before their time; they had hungered and been ragged, had
lived with the wolf at the door. And they had rebuilt fortune from
ruin.

It would be a comfort to sit with Maybelle, remembering that
Maybelle had buried a baby, dead in the mad flight before Sherman.
There would be solace in Fanny's presence, knowing that she and
Fanny both had lost husbands in the black days of martial law. It
would be grim fun to laugh with Mrs. Elsing, recalling the old
lady's face as she flogged her horse through Five Points the day
Atlanta fell, her loot from the commissary jouncing from her
carriage. It would be pleasant to match stories with Mrs.
Merriwether, now secure on the proceeds of her bakery, pleasant to
say: "Do you remember how bad things were right after the
surrender? Do you remember when we didn't know where our next pair
of shoes was coming from? And look at us now!"

Yes, it would be pleasant. Now she understood why when two ex-
Confederates met, they talked of the war with so much relish, with
pride, with nostalgia. Those had been days that tried their hearts
but they had come through them. They were veterans. She was a
veteran too, but she had no cronies with whom she could refight old
battles. Oh, to be with her own kind of people again, those people
who had been through the same things and knew how they hurt--and
yet how great a part of you they were!

But, somehow, these people had slipped away. She realized that it
was her own fault. She had never cared until now--now that Bonnie
was dead and she was lonely and afraid and she saw across her
shining dinner table a swarthy sodden stranger disintegrating under
her eyes.



CHAPTER LXI


Scarlett was in Marietta when Rhett's urgent telegram came. There
was a train leaving for Atlanta in ten minutes and she caught it,
carrying no baggage except her reticule and leaving Wade and Ella
at the hotel with Prissy.

Atlanta was only twenty miles away but the train crawled
interminably through the wet early autumn afternoon, stopping at
every bypath for passengers. Panic stricken at Rhett's message,
mad for speed, Scarlett almost screamed at every halt. Down the
road lumbered the train through forests faintly, tiredly gold, past
red hillsides still scarred with serpentine breastworks, past old
battery emplacements and weed-grown craters, down the road over
which Johnston's men had retreated so bitterly, fighting every step
of the way. Each station, each crossroad the conductor called was
the name of a battle, the site of a skirmish. Once they would have
stirred Scarlett to memories of terror but now she had no thought
for them.

Rhett's message had been:

"Mrs. Wilkes ill. Come home immediately."

Twilight had fallen when the train pulled into Atlanta and a light
misting rain obscured the town. The gas street lamps glowed dully,
blobs of yellow in the fog. Rhett was waiting for her at the depot
with the carriage. The very sight of his face frightened her more
than his telegram. She had never seen it so expressionless before.

"She isn't--" she cried.

"No. She's still alive." Rhett assisted her into the carriage.
"To Mrs. Wilkes' house and as fast as you can go," he ordered the
coachman.

"What's the matter with her? I didn't know she was ill. She
looked all right last week. Did she have an accident? Oh, Rhett,
it isn't really as serious as you--"

"She's dying," said Rhett and his voice had no more expression than
his face. "She wants to see you."

"Not Melly! Oh, not Melly! What's happened to her?"

"She's had a miscarriage."

"A--a-mis--but, Rhett, she--" Scarlett floundered. This
information on top of the horror of his announcement took her
breath away.

"You did not know she was going to have a baby?"

She could not even shake her head.

"Ah, well. I suppose not. I don't think she told anyone. She
wanted it to be a surprise. But I knew."

"You knew? But surely she didn't tell you!"

"She didn't have to tell me. I knew. She's been so--happy these
last two months I knew it couldn't mean anything else."

"But Rhett, the doctor said it would kill her to have another
baby!"

"It has killed her," said Rhett. And to the coachman: "For God's
sake, can't you drive faster?"

"But, Rhett, she can't be dying! I--I didn't and I--"

"She hasn't your strength. She's never had any strength. She's
never had anything but heart."

The carriage rocked to a standstill in front of the flat little
house and Rhett handed her out. Trembling, frightened, a sudden
feeling of loneliness upon her, she clasped his arm.

"You're coming in, Rhett?"

"No," he said and got back into the carriage.

She flew up the front steps, across the porch and threw open the
door. There, in the yellow lamplight were Ashley, Aunt Pitty and
India. Scarlett thought: "What's India doing here? Melanie told
her never to set foot in this house again." The three rose at the
sight of her, Aunt Pitty biting her trembling lips to still them,
India staring at her, grief stricken and without hate. Ashley
looked dull as a sleepwalker and, as he came to her and put his
hand upon her arm, he spoke like a sleepwalker.

"She asked for you," he said. "She asked for you."

"Can I see her now?" She turned toward the closed door of
Melanie's room.

"No. Dr. Meade is in there now. I'm glad you've come, Scarlett."

"I came as quickly as I could." Scarlett shed her bonnet and her
cloak. "The train-- She isn't really-- Tell me, she's better,
isn't she, Ashley? Speak to me! Don't look like that! She isn't
really--"

"She kept asking for you," said Ashley and looked her in the eyes.
And, in his eyes she saw the answer to her question. For a moment,
her heart stood still and then a queer fear, stronger than anxiety,
stronger than grief, began to beat in her breast. It can't be
true, she thought vehemently, trying to push back the fear.
Doctors make mistakes. I won't think it's true. I can't let
myself think it's true. I'll scream if I do. I must think of
something else.

"I don't believe it!" she cried stormily, looking into the three
drawn faces as though defying them to contradict her. "And why
didn't Melanie tell me? I'd never have gone to Marietta if I'd
known!"

Ashley's eyes awoke and were tormented.

"She didn't tell anyone, Scarlett, especially not you. She was
afraid you'd scold her if you knew. She wanted to wait three--till
she thought it safe and sure and then surprise you all and laugh
and say how wrong the doctors had been. And she was so happy. You
know how she was about babies--how much she's wanted a little girl.
And everything went so well until--and then for no reason at all--"

The door of Melanie's room opened quietly and Dr. Meade came out
into the hall, shutting the door behind him. He stood for a
moment, his gray beard sunk on his chest, and looked at the
suddenly frozen four. His gaze fell last on Scarlett. As he came
toward her, she saw that there was grief in his eyes and also
dislike and contempt that flooded her frightened heart with guilt.

"So you finally got here," he said.

Before she could answer, Ashley started toward the closed door.

"Not you, yet," said the doctor. "She wants to speak to Scarlett."

"Doctor," said India, putting a hand on his sleeve. Though her
voice was toneless, it plead more loudly than words. "Let me see
her for a moment. I've been here since this morning, waiting, but
she-- Let me see her for a moment. I want to tell her--must tell
her--that I was wrong about--something."

She did not look at Ashley or Scarlett as she spoke, but Dr. Meade
allowed his cold glance to fall on Scarlett.

"I'll see, Miss India," he said briefly. "But only if you'll give
me your word not to use up her strength telling her you were wrong.
She knows you were wrong and it will only worry her to hear you
apologize."

Pitty began, timidly: "Please, Dr. Meade--"

"Miss Pitty, you know you'd scream and faint."

Pitty drew up her stout little body and gave the doctor glance for
glance. Her eyes were dry and there was dignity in every curve.

"Well, all right, honey, a little later," said the doctor, more
kindly. "Come, Scarlett."

They tiptoed down the hall to the closed door and the doctor put
his hand on Scarlett's shoulder in a hard grip.

"Now, Miss," he whispered briefly, "no hysterics and no deathbed
confessions from you or, before God, I will wring your neck! Don't
give me any of your innocent stares. You know what I mean. Miss
Melly is going to die easily and you aren't going to ease your own
conscience by telling her anything about Ashley. I've never harmed
a woman yet, but if you say anything now--you'll answer to me."

He opened the door before she could answer, pushed her into the
room and closed the door behind her. The little room, cheaply
furnished in black walnut, was in semidarkness, the lamp shaded
with a newspaper. It was as small and prim a room as a
schoolgirl's, the narrow little low-backed bed, the plain net
curtains looped back, the clean faded rag rugs on the floor, were
so different from the lavishness of Scarlett's own bedroom with its
towering carved furniture, pink brocade draperies and rose-strewn
carpet.

Melanie lay in the bed, her figure under the counterpane shrunken
and flat like a little girl's. Two black braids fell on either
side of her face and her closed eyes were sunken in twin purple
circles. At the sight of her Scarlett stood transfixed, leaning
against the door. Despite the gloom of the room, she could see
that Melanie's face was of a waxy yellow color. It was drained of
life's blood and there was a pinched look about the nose. Until
that moment, Scarlett had hoped Dr. Meade was mistaken. But now
she knew. In the hospitals during the war she had seen too many
faces wearing this pinched look not to know what it inevitably
presaged.

Melanie was dying, but for a moment Scarlett's mind refused to take
it in. Melanie could not die. It was impossible for her to die.
God wouldn't let her die when she, Scarlett, needed her so much.
Never before had it occurred to her that she needed Melanie. But
now, the truth surged in, down to the deepest recesses of her soul.
She had relied on Melanie, even as she had relied upon herself, and
she had never known it. Now, Melanie was dying and Scarlett knew
she could not get along without her. Now, as she tiptoed across
the room toward the quiet figure, panic clutching at her heart, she
knew that Melanie had been her sword and her shield, her comfort
and her strength.

"I must hold her! I can't let her get away!" she thought and sank
beside the bed with a rustle of skirts. Hastily she grasped the
limp hand lying on the coverlet and was frightened anew by its
chill.

"It's me, Melly," she said.

Melanie's eyes opened a slit and then, as if having satisfied
herself that it was really Scarlett, she closed them again. After
a pause she drew a breath and whispered:

"Promise me?"

"Oh, anything!"

"Beau--look after him."

Scarlett could only nod, a strangled feeling in her throat, and she
gently pressed the hand she held by way of assent.

"I give him to you." There was the faintest trace of a smile. "I
gave him to you, once before--'member?--before he was born."

Did she remember? Could she ever forget that time? Almost as
clearly as if that dreadful day had returned, she could feel the
stifling heat of the September noon, remembering her terror of the
Yankees, hear the tramp of the retreating troops, recall Melanie's
voice begging her to take the baby should she die--remember, too,
how she had hated Melanie that day and hoped that she would die.

"I've killed her," she thought, in superstitious agony. "I wished
so often she would die and God heard me and is punishing me."

"Oh, Melly, don't talk like that! You know you'll pull through
this--"

"No. Promise."

Scarlett gulped.

"You know I promise. I'll treat him like he was my own boy."

"College?" asked Melanie's faint flat voice.

"Oh, yes! The university and Harvard and Europe and anything he
wants--and--and--a pony--and music lessons-- Oh, please, Melly, do
try! Do make an effort!"

The silence fell again and on Melanie's face there were signs of a
struggle to gather strength to speak.

"Ashley," she said. "Ashley and you--" Her voice faltered into
stillness.

At the mention of Ashley's name, Scarlett's heart stood still, cold
as granite within her. Melanie had known all the time. Scarlett
dropped her head on the coverlet and a sob that would not rise
caught her throat with a cruel hand. Melanie knew. Scarlett was
beyond shame now, beyond any feeling save a wild remorse that she
had hurt this gentle creature throughout the long years. Melanie
had known--and yet, she had remained her loyal friend. Oh, if she
could only live those years over again! She would never even let
her eyes meet those of Ashley.

"O God," she prayed rapidly, "do, please, let her live! I'll make
it up to her. I'll be so good to her. I'll never even speak to
Ashley again as long as I live, if You'll only let her get well!"

"Ashley," said Melanie feebly and her fingers reached out to touch
Scarlett's bowed head. Her thumb and forefinger tugged with no
more strength than that of a baby at Scarlett's hair. Scarlett
knew what that meant, knew Melanie wanted her to look up. But she
could not, could not meet Melanie's eyes and read that knowledge in
them.

"Ashley," Melanie whispered again and Scarlett gripped herself.
When she looked God in the face on the Day of Judgment and read her
sentence in His eyes, it would not be as bad as this. Her soul
cringed but she raised her head.

She saw only the same dark loving eyes, sunken and drowsy with
death, the same tender mouth tiredly fighting pain for breath. No
reproach was there, no accusation and no fear--only an anxiety that
she might not find strength for words.

For a moment Scarlett was too stunned to even feel relief. Then,
as she held Melanie's hand more closely, a flood of warm gratitude
to God swept over her and, for the first time since her childhood,
she said a humble, unselfish prayer.

"Thank You, God. I know I'm not worth it but thank You for not
letting her know."

"What about Ashley, Melly?"

"You'll--look after him?"

"Oh, yes."

"He catches cold--so easily."

There was a pause.

"Look after--his business--you understand?"

"Yes, I understand. I will."

She made a great effort.

"Ashley isn't--practical."

Only death could have forced that disloyalty from Melanie.

"Look after him, Scarlett--but--don't ever let him know."

"I'll look after him and the business too, and I'll never let him
know. I'll just kind of suggest things to him."

Melanie managed a small smile but it was a triumphant one as her
eyes met Scarlett's again. Their glance sealed the bargain that
the protection of Ashley Wilkes from a too harsh world was passing
from one woman to another and that Ashley's masculine pride should
never be humbled by this knowledge.

Now the struggle went out of the tired face as though with
Scarlett's promise, ease had come to her.

"You're so smart--so brave--always been so good to me--"

At these words, the sob came freely to Scarlett's throat and she
clapped her hand over her mouth. Now, she was going to bawl like a
child and cry out: "I've been a devil! I've wronged you so! I
never did anything for you! It was all for Ashley."

She rose to her feet abruptly, sinking her teeth into her thumb to
regain her control. Rhett's words came back to her again, "She
loves you. Let that be your cross." Well, the cross was heavier
now. It was bad enough that she had tried by every art to take
Ashley from her. But now it was worse that Melanie, who had
trusted her blindly through life, was laying the same love and
trust on her in death. No, she could not speak. She could not
even say again: "Make an effort to live." She must let her go
easily, without a struggle, without tears, without sorrow.

The door opened slightly and Dr. Meade stood on the threshold,
beckoning imperiously. Scarlett bent over the bed, choking back
her tears and taking Melanie's hand, laid it against her cheek.

"Good night," she said, and her voice was steadier than she thought
it possibly could be.

"Promise me--" came the whisper, very softly now.

"Anything, darling."

"Captain Butler--be kind to him. He--loves you so."

"Rhett?" thought Scarlett, bewildered, and the words meant nothing
to her.

"Yes, indeed," she said automatically and, pressing a light kiss on
the hand, laid it back on the bed.

"Tell the ladies to come in immediately," whispered the doctor as
she passed through the door.

Through blurred eyes she saw India and Pitty follow the doctor into
the room, holding their skirts close to their sides to keep them
from rustling. The door closed behind them and the house was
still. Ashley was nowhere to be seen. Scarlett leaned her head
against the wall, like a naughty child in a corner, and rubbed her
aching throat.

Behind that door, Melanie was going and, with her, the strength
upon which she had relied unknowingly for so many years. Why, oh,
why, had she not realized before this how much she loved and needed
Melanie? But who would have thought of small plain Melanie as a
tower of strength? Melanie who was shy to tears before strangers,
timid about raising her voice in an opinion of her own, fearful of
the disapproval of old ladies, Melanie who lacked the courage to
say Boo to a goose? And yet--

Scarlett's mind went back through the years to the still, hot noon
at Tara when gray smoke curled above a blue-clad body and Melanie
stood at the top of the stairs with Charles' saber in her hand.
Scarlett remembered that she had thought at the time: "How silly!
Melly couldn't even heft that sword!" But now she knew that had
the necessity arisen, Melanie would have charged down those stairs
and killed the Yankee--or been killed herself.

Yes, Melanie had been there that day with a sword in her small
hand, ready to do battle for her. And now, as Scarlett looked
sadly back, she realized that Melanie had always been there beside
her with a sword in her hand, unobtrusive as her own shadow, loving
her, fighting for her with blind passionate loyalty, fighting
Yankees, fire, hunger, poverty, public opinion and even her beloved
blood kin.

Scarlett felt her courage and self-confidence ooze from her as she
realized that the sword which had flashed between her and the world
was sheathed forever.

"Melly is the only woman friend I ever had," she thought forlornly,
"the only woman except Mother who really loved me. She's like
Mother, too. Everyone who knew her has clung to her skirts."

Suddenly it was as if Ellen were lying behind that closed door,
leaving the world for a second time. Suddenly she was standing at
Tara again with the world about her ears, desolate with the
knowledge that she could not face life without the terrible
strength of the weak, the gentle, the tender hearted.



She stood in the hall, irresolute, frightened, and the glaring
light of the fire in the sitting room threw tall dim shadows on the
walls about her. The house was utterly still and the stillness
soaked into her like a fine chill rain. Ashley! Where was Ashley?

She went toward the sitting room seeking him like a cold animal
seeking the fire but he was not there. She must find him. She had
discovered Melanie's strength and her dependence on it only to lose
it in the moment of discovery but there was still Ashley left.
There was Ashley who was strong and wise and comforting. In Ashley
and his love lay strength upon which to lay her weakness, courage
to bolster her fear, ease for her sorrow.

He must be in his room, she thought, and tiptoeing down the hall,
she knocked softly. There was no answer, so she pushed the door
open. Ashley was standing in front of the dresser, looking at a
pair of Melanie's mended gloves. First he picked up one and looked
at it, as though he had never seen it before. Then he laid it down
gently, as though it were made of glass, and picked up the other
one.

She said: "Ashley!" in a trembling voice and he turned slowly and
looked at her. The drowsy aloofness had gone from his gray eyes
and they were wide and unmasked. In them she saw fear that matched
her own fear, helplessness weaker than her own, bewilderment more
profound than she would ever know. The feeling of dread which had
possessed her in the hall deepened as she saw his face. She went
toward him.

"I'm frightened," she said. "Oh, Ashley, hold me. I'm so
frightened!"

He made no move to her but stared, gripping the glove tightly in
both hands. She put a hand on his arm and whispered: "What is
it?"

His eyes searched her intently, hunting, hunting desperately for
something he did not find. Finally he spoke and his voice was not
his own.

"I was wanting you," he said. "I was going to run and find you--
run like a child wanting comfort--and I find a child, more
frightened, running to me."

"Not you--you can't be frightened," she cried. "Nothing has ever
frightened you. But I-- You've always been so strong--"

"If I've ever been strong, it was because she was behind me," he
said, his voice breaking, and he looked down at the glove and
smoothed the fingers. "And--and--all the strength I ever had is
going with her."

There was such a note of wild despair in his low voice that she
dropped her hand from his arm and stepped back. And in the heavy
silence that fell between them, she felt that she really understood
him for the first time in her life.

"Why--" she said slowly, "why, Ashley, you love her, don't you?"

He spoke as with an effort.

"She is the only dream I ever had that lived and breathed and did
not die in the face of reality."

"Dreams!" she thought, an old irritation stirring. "Always dreams
with him! Never common sense!"

With a heart that was heavy and a little bitter, she said: "You've
been such a fool, Ashley. Why couldn't you see that she was worth
a million of me?"

"Scarlett, please! If you only knew what I've gone through since
the doctor--"

"What you've gone through! Don't you think that I-- Oh, Ashley,
you should have known, years ago, that you loved her and not me!
Why didn't you! Everything would have been so different, so-- Oh,
you should have realized and not kept me dangling with all your
talk about honor and sacrifice! If you'd told me, years ago, I'd
have-- It would have killed me but I could have stood it somehow.
But you wait till now, till Melly's dying, to find it out and now
it's too late to do anything. Oh, Ashley, men are supposed to know
such things--not women! You should have seen so clearly that you
loved her all the time and only wanted me like--like Rhett wants
that Watling woman!"

He winced at her words but his eyes still met hers, imploring
silence, comfort. Every line of his face admitted the truth of her
words. The very droop of his shoulders showed that his own self-
castigation was more cruel than any she could give. He stood
silent before her, clutching the glove as though it were an
understanding hand and, in the stillness that followed her words,
her indignation fell away and pity, tinged with contempt, took its
place. Her conscience smote her. She was kicking a beaten and
defenseless man--and she had promised Melanie that she would look
after him.

"And just as soon as I promised her, I said mean, hurting things to
him and there's no need for me to say them or for anyone to say
them. He knows the truth and it's killing him," she thought
desolately. "He's not grown up. He's a child, like me, and he's
sick with fear at losing her. Melly knew how it would be--Melly
knew him far better than I do. That's why she said look after him
and Beau, in the same breath. How can Ashley ever stand this? I
can stand it. I can stand anything. I've had to stand so much.
But he can't--he can't stand anything without her."

"Forgive me, darling," she said gently, putting out her arms. "I
know what you must be suffering. But remember, she doesn't know
anything--she never even suspected-- God was that good to us."

He came to her quickly and his arms went round her blindly. She
tiptoed to bring her warm cheek comfortingly against his and with
one hand she smoothed the back of his hair.

"Don't cry, sweet. She'd want you to be brave. She'll want to see
you in a moment and you must be brave. She mustn't see that you've
been crying. It would worry her."

He held her in a grip that made breathing difficult and his choking
voice was in her ear.

"What will I do? I can't--I can't live without her!"

"I can't either," she thought, shuddering away from the picture of
the long years to come, without Melanie. But she caught herself in
a strong grasp. Ashley was depending on her, Melanie was depending
on her. As once before, in the moonlight at Tara, drunk, exhausted,
she had thought: "Burdens are for shoulders strong enough to carry
them." Well, her shoulders were strong and Ashley's were not. She
squared her shoulders for the load and with a calmness she was far
from feeling, kissed his wet cheek without fever or longing or
passion, only with cool gentleness.

"We shall manage--somehow," she said.

A door opened with sudden violence into the hall and Dr. Meade
called with sharp urgency:

"Ashley! Quick!"

"My God! She's gone!" thought Scarlett. "And Ashley didn't get to
tell her good-by! But maybe--"

"Hurry!" she cried aloud, giving him a push, for he stood staring
like one stunned. "Hurry!"

She pulled open the door and motioned him through. Galvanized by
her words, he ran into the hall, the glove still clasped closely in
his hand. She heard his rapid steps for a moment and then the
closing of a door.

She said, "My God!" again and walking slowly to the bed, sat down
upon it and dropped her head in her hands. She was suddenly tired,
more tired than she had ever been in all her life. With the sound
of the closing door, the strain under which she had been laboring,
the strain which had given her strength, suddenly snapped. She
felt exhausted in body and drained of emotions. Now she felt no
sorrow or remorse, no fear or amazement. She was tired and her
mind ticked away dully, mechanically, as the clock on the mantel.

Out of the dullness, one thought arose. Ashley did not love her
and had never really loved her and the knowledge did not hurt. It
should hurt. She should be desolate, broken hearted, ready to
scream at fate. She had relied upon his love for so long. It had
upheld her through so many dark places. Yet, there the truth was.
He did not love her and she did not care. She did not care because
she did not love him. She did not love him and so nothing he could
do or say could hurt her.

She lay down on the bed and put her head on the pillow tiredly.
Useless to try to combat the idea, useless to say to herself: "But
I do love him. I've loved him for years. Love can't change to
apathy in a minute."

But it could change and it had changed.

"He never really existed at all, except in my imagination," she
thought wearily. "I loved something I made up, something that's
just as dead as Melly is. I made a pretty suit of clothes and fell
in love with it. And when Ashley came riding along, so handsome,
so different, I put that suit on him and made him wear it whether
it fitted him or not. And I wouldn't see what he really was. I
kept on loving the pretty clothes--and not him at all."

Now she could look back down the long years and see herself in
green flowered dimity, standing in the sunshine at Tara, thrilled
by the young horseman with his blond hair shining like a silver
helmet. She could see so clearly now that he was only a childish
fancy, no more important really than her spoiled desire for the
aquamarine earbobs she had coaxed out of Gerald. For, once she
owned the earbobs, they had lost their value, as everything except
money lost its value once it was hers. And so he, too, would have
become cheap if, in those first far-away days, she had ever had the
satisfaction of refusing to marry him. If she had ever had him at
her mercy, seen him grown passionate, importunate, jealous, sulky,
pleading, like the other boys, the wild infatuation which had
possessed her would have passed, blowing away as lightly as mist
before sunshine and light wind when she met a new man.

"What a fool I've been," she thought bitterly. "And now I've got
to pay for it. What I've wished for so often has happened. I've
wished Melly was dead so I could have him. And now she's dead and
I've got him and I don't want him. His damned honor will make him
ask me if I want to divorce Rhett and marry him. Marry him? I
wouldn't have him on a silver platter! But, just the same I've got
him round my neck for the rest of my life. As long as I live I'll
have to look after him and see that he doesn't starve and that
people don't hurt his feelings. He'll be just another child,
clinging to my skirts. I've lost my lover and I've got another
child. And if I hadn't promised Melly, I'd--I wouldn't care if I
never saw him again."



CHAPTER LXII


She heard whispering voices outside, and going to the door she saw
the frightened negroes standing in the back hall, Dilcey with her
arms sagging under the heavy weight of the sleeping Beau, Uncle
Peter crying, and Cookie wiping her wide wet face on her apron.
All three looked at her, dumbly asking what they were to do now.
She looked up the hall toward the sitting room and saw India and
Aunt Pitty standing speechless, holding each other's hands and, for
once, India had lost her stiff-necked look. Like the negroes, they
looked imploringly at her, expecting her to give instructions. She
walked into the sitting room and the two women closed about her.

"Oh, Scarlett, what--" began Aunt Pitty, her fat, child's mouth
shaking.

"Don't speak to me or I'll scream," said Scarlett. Overwrought
nerves brought sharpness to her voice and her hands clenched at her
sides. The thought of speaking of Melanie now, of making the
inevitable arrangements that follow a death made her throat
tighten. "I don't want a word out of either of you."

At the authoritative note in her voice, they fell back, helpless
hurt looks on their faces. "I mustn't cry in front of them," she
thought. "I mustn't break now or they'll begin crying too, and
then the darkies will begin screaming and we'll all go mad. I must
pull myself together. There's so much I'll have to do. See the
undertaker and arrange the funeral and see that the house is clean
and be here to talk to people who'll cry on my neck. Ashley can't
do them. I've got to do them. Oh, what a weary load! It's always
been a weary load and always some one else's load!"

She looked at the dazed hurt faces of India and Pitty and
contrition swept her. Melanie would not like her to be so sharp
with those who loved her.

"I'm sorry I was cross," she said, speaking with difficulty. "It's
just that I--I'm sorry I was cross, Auntie. I'm going out on the
porch for a minute. I've got to be alone. Then I'll come back and
we'll--"

She patted Aunt Pitty and went swiftly by her to the front door,
knowing if she stayed in this room another minute her control would
crack. She had to be alone. And she had to cry or her heart would
break.

She stepped onto the dark porch and closed the door behind her and
the moist night air was cool upon her face. The rain had ceased
and there was no sound except for the occasional drip of water from
the eaves. The world was wrapped in a thick mist, a faintly chill
mist that bore on its breath the smell of the dying year. All the
houses across the street were dark except one, and the light from a
lamp in the window, falling into the street, struggled feebly with
the fog, golden particles floating in its rays. It was as if the
whole world were enveloped in an unmoving blanket of gray smoke.
And the whole world was still.

She leaned her head against one of the uprights of the porch and
prepared to cry but no tears came. This was a calamity too deep
for tears. Her body shook. There still reverberated in her mind
the crashes of the two impregnable citadels of her life, thundering
to dust about her ears. She stood for a while, trying to summon up
her old charm: "I'll think of all this tomorrow when I can stand
it better." But the charm had lost its potency. She had to think
of two things, now--Melanie and how much she loved and needed her;
Ashley and the obstinate blindness that had made her refuse to see
him as he really was. And she knew that thoughts of them would
hurt just as much tomorrow and all the tomorrows of her life.

"I can't go back in there and talk to them now," she thought. "I
can't face Ashley tonight and comfort him. Not tonight! Tomorrow
morning I'll come early and do the things I must do, say the
comforting things I must say. But not tonight. I can't. I'm
going home."

Home was only five blocks away. She would not wait for the sobbing
Peter to harness the buggy, would not wait for Dr. Meade to drive
her home. She could not endure the tears of the one, the silent
condemnation of the other. She went swiftly down the dark front
steps without her coat or bonnet and into the misty night. She
rounded the corner and started up the long hill toward Peachree
Street, walking in a still wet world, and even her footsteps were
as noiseless as a dream.

As she went up the hill, her chest tight with tears that would not
come, there crept over her an unreal feeling, a feeling that she
had been in this same dim chill place before, under a like set of
circumstances--not once but many times before. How silly, she
thought uneasily, quickening her steps. Her nerves were playing
her tricks. But the feeling persisted, stealthily pervading her
mind. She peered about her uncertainly and the feeling grew, eerie
but familiar, and her head went up sharply like an animal scenting
danger. It's just that I'm worn out, she tried to soothe herself.
And the night's so queer, so misty. I never saw such thick mist
before except--except!

And then she knew and fear squeezed her heart. She knew now. In a
hundred nightmares, she had fled through fog like this, through a
haunted country without landmarks, thick with cold cloaking mist,
peopled with clutching ghosts and shadows. Was she dreaming again
or was this her dream come true?

For an instant, reality went out of her and she was lost. The old
nightmare feeling was sweeping her, stronger than ever, and her
heart began to race. She was standing again amid death and
stillness, even as she had once stood at Tara. All that mattered
in the world had gone out of it, life was in ruins and panic howled
through her heart like a cold wind. The horror that was in the
mist and was the mist laid hands upon her. And she began to run.
As she had run a hundred times in dreams, she ran now, flying
blindly she knew not where, driven by a nameless dread, seeking in
the gray mist for the safety that lay somewhere.

Up the dim street she fled, her head down, her heart hammering, the
night air wet on her lips, the trees overhead menacing. Somewhere,
somewhere in this wild land of moist stillness, there was a refuge!
She sped gasping up the long hill, her wet skirts wrapping coldly
about her ankles, her lungs bursting, the tight-laced stays
pressing her ribs into her heart.

Then before her eyes there loomed a light, a row of lights, dim and
flickering but none the less real. In her nightmare, there had
never been any lights, only gray fog. Her mind seized on those
lights. Lights meant safety, people, reality. Suddenly she
stopped running, her hands clenching, struggling to pull herself
out of her panic, staring intently at the row of gas lamps which
had signaled to her brain that this was Peachtree Street, Atlanta,
and not the gray world of sleep and ghosts.

She sank down panting on a carriage block, clutching at her nerves
as though they were ropes slipping swiftly through her hands.

"I was running--running like a crazy person!" she thought, her body
shaking with lessening fear, her thudding heart making her sick.
"But where was I running?"

Her breath came more easily now and she sat with her hand pressed
to her side and looked up Peachtree Street. There, at the top of
the hill, was her own house. It looked as though every window bore
lights, lights defying the mist to dim their brilliance. Home! It
was real! She looked at the dim far-off bulk of the house
thankfully, longingly, and something like calm fell on her spirit.

Home! That was where she wanted to go. That was where she was
running. Home to Rhett!

At this realization it was as though chains fell away from her and
with them the fear which had haunted her dreams since the night she
stumbled to Tara to find the world ended. At the end of the road
to Tara she had found security gone, all strength, all wisdom, all
loving tenderness, all understanding gone--all those things which,
embodied in Ellen, had been the bulwark of her girlhood. And,
though she had won material safety since that night, in her dreams
she was still a frightened child, searching for the lost security
of that lost world.

Now she knew the haven she had sought in dreams, the place of warm
safety which had always been hidden from her in the mist. It was
not Ashley--oh, never Ashley! There was no more warmth in him than
in a marsh light, no more security than in quicksand. It was
Rhett--Rhett who had strong arms to hold her, a broad chest to
pillow her tired head, jeering laughter to pull her affairs into
proper perspective. And complete understanding, because he, like
her, saw truth as truth, unobstructed by impractical notions of
honor, sacrifice, or high belief in human nature. He loved her!
Why hadn't she realized that he loved her, for all his taunting
remarks to the contrary? Melanie had seen it and with her last
breath had said, "Be kind to him."

"Oh," she thought, "Ashley's not the only stupidly blind person. I
should have seen."

For years she had had her back against the stone wall of Rhett's
love and had taken it as much for granted as she had taken
Melanie's love, flattering herself that she drew her strength from
herself alone. And even as she had realized earlier in the evening
that Melanie bad been beside her in her bitter campaigns against
life, now she knew that silent in the background, Rhett had stood,
loving her, understanding her, ready to help. Rhett at the bazaar,
reading her impatience in her eyes and leading her out in the reel,
Rhett helping her out of the bondage of mourning, Rhett convoying
her through the fire and explosions the night Atlanta fell, Rhett
lending her the money that gave her her start, Rhett who comforted
her when she woke in the nights crying with fright from her dreams--
why, no man did such things without loving a woman to distraction!

The trees dripped dampness upon her but she did not feel it. The
mist swirled about her and she paid it no heed. For when she
thought of Rhett, with his swarthy face, flashing teeth and dark
alert eyes, a trembling came over her.

"I love him," she thought and, as always, she accepted the truth
with little wonder, as a child accepting a gift. "I don't know how
long I've loved him but it's true. And if it hadn't been for
Ashley, I'd have realized it long ago. I've never been able to see
the world at all, because Ashley stood in the way."

She loved him, scamp, blackguard, without scruple or honor--at
least, honor as Ashley saw it. "Damn Ashley's honor!" she thought.
"Ashley's honor has always let me down. Yes, from the very
beginning when he kept on coming to see me, even though he knew his
family expected him to marry Melanie. Rhett has never let me down,
even that dreadful night of Melly's reception when he ought to have
wrung my neck. Even when he left me on the road the night Atlanta
fell, he knew I'd be safe. He knew I'd get through somehow. Even
when he acted like he was going to make me pay to get that money
from him at the Yankee camp. He wouldn't have taken me. He was
just testing me. He's loved me all along and I've been so mean to
him. Time and again, I've hurt him and he was too proud to show
it. And when Bonnie died-- Oh, how could I?"

She stood up straight and looked at the house on the hill. She had
thought, half an hour ago, that she had lost everything in the
world, except money, everything that made life desirable, Ellen,
Gerald, Bonnie, Mammy, Melanie and Ashley. She had to lose them
all to realize that she loved Rhett--loved him because he was
strong and unscrupulous, passionate and earthy, like herself.

"I'll tell him everything," she thought. "He'll understand. He's
always understood. I'll tell him what a fool I've been and how
much I love him and I'll make it up to him."

Suddenly she felt strong and happy. She was not afraid of the
darkness or the fog and she knew with a singing in her heart that
she would never fear them again. No matter what mists might curl
around her in the future, she knew her refuge. She started briskly
up the street toward home and the blocks seemed very long. Far,
far too long. She caught up her skirts to her knees and began to
run lightly. But this time she was not running from fear. She was
running because Rhett's arms were at the end of the street.



CHAPTER LXIII


The front door was slightly ajar and she trotted, breathless, into
the hall and paused for a moment under the rainbow prisms of the
chandelier. For all its brightness the house was very still, not
with the serene stillness of sleep but with a watchful, tired
silence that was faintly ominous. She saw at a glance that Rhett
was not in the parlor or the library and her heart sank. Suppose
he should be out--out with Belle or wherever it was he spent the
many evenings when he did not appear at the supper table? She had
not bargained on this.

She had started up the steps in search of him when she saw that the
door of the dining room was closed. Her heart contracted a little
with shame at the sight of that closed door, remembering the many
nights of this last summer when Rhett had sat there alone, drinking
until he was sodden and Pork came to urge him to bed. That had
been her fault but she'd change it all. Everything was to be
different from now on--but, please God, don't let him be too drunk
tonight. If he's too drunk he won't believe me and he'll laugh at
me and that will break my heart.

She quietly opened the dining-room door a crack and peered in. He
was seated before the table, slumped in his chair, and a full
decanter stood before him with the stopper in place, the glass
unused. Thank God, he was sober! She pulled open the door,
holding herself back from running to him. But when he looked up at
her, something in his gaze stopped her dead on the threshold,
stilled the words on her lips.

He looked at her steadily with dark eyes that were heavy with
fatigue and there was no leaping light in them. Though her hair
was tumbling about her shoulders, her bosom heaving breathlessly
and her skirts mud splattered to the knees, his face did not change
with surprise or question or his lips twist with mockery. He was
sunken in his chair, his suit wrinkling untidily against his
thickening waist, every line of him proclaiming the ruin of a fine
body and the coarsening of a strong face. Drink and dissipation
had done their work on the coin-clean profile and now it was no
longer the head of a young pagan prince on new-minted gold but a
decadent, tired Caesar on copper debased by long usage. He looked
up at her as she stood there, hand on heart, looked quietly, almost
in a kindly way, that frightened her.

"Come and sit down," he said. "She is dead?"

She nodded and advanced hesitantly toward him, uncertainty taking
form in her mind at this new expression on his face. Without
rising, he pushed back a chair with his foot and she sank into it.
She wished he had not spoken of Melanie so soon. She did not want
to talk of her now, to re-live the agony of the last hour. There
was all the rest of her life in which to speak of Melanie. But it
seemed to her now, driven by a fierce desire to cry: "I love you,"
that there was only this night, this hour, in which to tell Rhett
what was in her mind. But there was something in his face that
stopped her and she was suddenly ashamed to speak of love when
Melanie was hardly cold.

"Well, God rest her," he said heavily. "She was the only completely
kind person I ever knew."

"Oh, Rhett!" she cried miserably, for his words brought up too
vividly all the kind things Melanie had ever done for her. "Why
didn't you come in with me? It was dreadful--and I needed you so!"

"I couldn't have borne it," he said simply and for a moment he was
silent. Then he spoke with an effort and said, softly: "A very
great lady."

His somber gaze went past her and in his eyes was the same look she
had seen in the light of the flames the night Atlanta fell, when he
told her he was going off with the retreating army--the surprise of
a man who knows himself utterly, yet discovers in himself
unexpected loyalties and emotions and feels a faint self-ridicule
at the discovery.

His moody eyes went over her shoulder as though he saw Melanie
silently passing through the room to the door. In the look of
farewell on his face there was no sorrow, no pain, only a
speculative wonder at himself, only a poignant stirring of emotions
dead since boyhood, as he said again: "A very great lady."

Scarlett shivered and the glow went from her heart, the fine
warmth, the splendor which had sent her home on winged feet. She
half-grasped what was in Rhett's mind as he said farewell to the
only person in the world he respected and she was desolate again
with a terrible sense of loss that was no longer personal. She
could not wholly understand or analyze what he was feeling, but it
seemed almost as if she too had been brushed by whispering skirts,
touching her softly in a last caress. She was seeing through
Rhett's eyes the passing, not of a woman but of a legend--the
gentle, self-effacing but steel-spined women on whom the South had
builded its house in war and to whose proud and loving arms it had
returned in defeat.

His eyes came back to her and his voice changed. Now it was light
and cool.

"So she's dead. That makes it nice for you, doesn't it?"

"Oh, how can you say such things," she cried, stung, the quick
tears coming to her eyes. "You know how I loved her!"

"No, I can't say I did. Most unexpected and it's to your credit,
considering your passion for white trash, that you could appreciate
her at last."

"How can you talk so? Of course I appreciated her! You didn't.
You didn't know her like I did! It isn't in you to understand her--
how good she was--"

"Indeed? Perhaps not."

"She thought of everybody except herself--why, her last words were
about you."

There was a flash of genuine feeling in his eyes as he turned to
her.

"What did she say?"

"Oh, not now, Rhett."

"Tell me."

His voice was cool but the hand he put on her wrist hurt. She did
not want to tell, this was not the way she had intended to lead up
to the subject of her love but his hand was urgent.

"She said--she said-- 'Be kind to Captain Butler. He loves you so
much.'"

He stared at her and dropped her wrist. His eyelids went down,
leaving his face dark and blank. Suddenly he rose and going to the
window, he drew the curtains and looked out intently as if there
were something to see outside except blinding mist.

"Did she say anything else?" he questioned, not turning his head.

"She asked me to take care of little Beau and I said I would, like
he was my own boy."

"What else?"

"She said--Ashley--she asked me to look after Ashley, too."

He was silent for a moment and then he laughed softly. "It's
convenient to have the first wife's permission, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

He turned and even in her confusion she was surprised that there
was no mockery in his face. Nor was there any more interest in it
than in the face of a man watching the last act of a none-too-
amusing comedy.

"I think my meaning's plain enough. Miss Melly is dead. You
certainly have all the evidence you want to divorce me and you
haven't enough reputation left for a divorce to hurt you. And you
haven't any religion left, so the Church won't matter. Then--
Ashley and dreams come true with the blessings of Miss Melly."

"Divorce?" she cried. "No! No!" Incoherent for a moment she
leaped to her feet and running to him caught his arm. "Oh, you're
all wrong! Terribly wrong. I don't want a divorce--I--" She
stopped for she could find no other words.

He put his hand under her chin, quietly turned her face up to the
light and looked for an intent moment into her eyes. She looked up
at him, her heart in her eyes, her lips quivering as she tried to
speak. But she could marshal no words because she was trying to
find in his face some answering emotions, some leaping light of
hope, of joy. Surely he must know, now! But the smooth dark
blankness which had baffled her so often was all that her frantic,
searching eyes could find. He dropped her chin and, turning,
walked back to his chair and sprawled tiredly again, his chin on
his breast, his eyes looking up at her from under black brows in an
impersonal speculative way.

She followed him back to his chair, her hands twisting, and stood
before him.

"You are wrong," she began again, finding words. "Rhett, tonight,
when I knew, I ran every step of the way home to tell you. Oh,
darling, I--"

"You are tired," he said, still watching her. "You'd better go to
bed."

"But I must tell you!"

"Scarlett," he said heavily, "I don't want to hear--anything."

"But you don't know what I'm going to say!"

"My pet, it's written plainly on your face. Something, someone has
made you realize that the unfortunate Mr. Wilkes is too large a
mouthful of Dead Sea fruit for even you to chew. And that same
something has suddenly set my charms before you in a new and
attractive light," he sighed slightly. "And it's no use to talk
about it."

She drew a sharp surprised breath. Of course, he had always read
her easily. Heretofore she had resented it but now, after the
first shock at her own transparency, her heart rose with gladness
and relief. He knew, he understood and her task was miraculously
made easy. No use to talk about it! Of course he was bitter at
her long neglect, of course he was mistrustful of her sudden
turnabout. She would have to woo him with kindness, convince him
with a rich outpouring of love, and what a pleasure it would be to
do it!

"Darling, I'm going to tell you everything," she said, putting her
hands on the arm of his chair and leaning down to him. "I've been
so wrong, such a stupid fool--"

"Scarlett, don't go on with this. Don't be humble before me. I
can't bear it. Leave us some dignity, some reticence to remember
out of our marriage. Spare us this last."

She straightened up abruptly. Spare us this last? What did he
mean by "this last"? Last? This was their first, their beginning.

"But I will tell you," she began rapidly, as if fearing his hand
upon her mouth, silencing her. "Oh, Rhett, I love you so, darling!
I must have loved you for years and I was such a fool I didn't know
it. Rhett, you must believe me!"

He looked at her, standing before him, for a moment, a long look
that went to the back of her mind. She saw there was belief in his
eyes but little interest. Oh, was he going to be mean, at this of
all times? To torment her, pay her back in her own coin?

"Oh, I believe you," he said at last. "But what of Ashley Wilkes?"

"Ashley!" she said, and made an impatient gesture. "I--I don't
believe I've cared anything about him for ages. It was--well, a
sort of habit I hung onto from when I was a little girl. Rhett,
I'd never even thought I cared about him if I'd ever known what he
was really like. He's such a helpless, poor-spirited creature, for
all his prattle about truth and honor and--"

"No," said Rhett. "If you must see him as he really is, see him
straight. He's only a gentleman caught in a world he doesn't
belong in, trying to make a poor best of it by the rules of the
world that's gone."

"Oh, Rhett, don't let's talk of him! What does he matter now?
Aren't you glad to know-- I mean, now that I--"

As his tired eyes met hers, she broke off in embarrassment, shy as
a girl with her first beau. If he'd only make it easier for her!
If only he would hold out his arms, so she could crawl thankfully
into his lap and lay her head on his chest. Her lips on his could
tell him better than all her stumbling words. But as she looked at
him, she realized that he was not holding her off just to be mean.
He looked drained and as though nothing she had said was of any
moment.

"Glad?" he said. "Once I would have thanked God, fasting, to hear
you say all this. But, now, it doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter? What are you talking about? Of course, it
matters! Rhett, you do care, don't you? You must care. Melly
said you did."

"Well, she was right, as far as she knew. But, Scarlett, did it
ever occur to you that even the most deathless love could wear
out?"

She looked at him speechless, her mouth a round O.

"Mine wore out," he went on, "against Ashley Wilkes and your insane
obstinacy that makes you hold on like a bulldog to anything you
think you want. . . . Mine wore out."

"But love can't wear out!"

"Yours for Ashley did."

"But I never really loved Ashley!"

"Then, you certainly gave a good imitation of it--up till tonight.
Scarlett, I'm not upbraiding you, accusing you, reproaching you.
That time has passed. So spare me your defenses and your
explanations. If you can manage to listen to me for a few minutes
without interrupting, I can explain what I mean. Though God knows,
I see no need for explanations. The truth's so plain."

She sat down, the harsh gas light falling on her white bewildered
face. She looked into the eyes she knew so well--and knew so
little--listened to his quiet voice saying words which at first
meant nothing. This was the first time he had ever talked to her
in this manner, as one human being to another, talked as other
people talked, without flippancy, mockery or riddles.

"Did it ever occur to you that I loved you as much as a man can
love a woman? Loved you for years before I finally got you?
During the war I'd go away and try to forget you, but I couldn't
and I always had to come back. After the war I risked arrest, just
to come back and find you. I cared so much I believe I would have
killed Frank Kennedy if he hadn't died when he did. I loved you
but I couldn't let you know it. You're so brutal to those who love
you, Scarlett. You take their love and hold it over their heads
like a whip."

Out of it all only the fact that he loved her meant anything. At
the faint echo of passion in his voice, pleasure and excitement
crept back into her. She sat, hardly breathing, listening,
waiting.

"I knew you didn't love me when I married you. I knew about
Ashley, you see. But, fool that I was, I thought I could make you
care. Laugh, if you like, but I wanted to take care of you, to pet
you, to give you everything you wanted. I wanted to marry you and
protect you and give you a free rein in anything that would make
you happy--just as I did Bonnie. You'd had such a struggle,
Scarlett. No one knew better than I what you'd gone through and I
wanted you to stop fighting and let me fight for you. I wanted you
to play, like a child--for you were a child, a brave, frightened,
bullheaded child. I think you are still a child. No one but a
child could be so headstrong and so insensitive."

His voice was calm and tired but there was something in the quality
of it that raised a ghost of memory in Scarlett. She had heard a
voice like this once before and at some other crisis of her life.
Where had it been? The voice of a man facing himself and his world
without feeling, without flinching, without hope.

Why--why--it had been Ashley in the wintry, windswept orchard at
Tara, talking of life and shadow shows with a tired calmness that
had more finality in its timbre than any desperate bitterness could
have revealed. Even as Ashley's voice then had turned her cold
with dread of things she could not understand, so now Rhett's voice
made her heart sink. His voice, his manner, more than the content
of his words, disturbed her, made her realize that her pleasurable
excitement of a few moments ago had been untimely. Something was
wrong, badly wrong. What it was she did not know but she listened
desperately, her eyes on his brown face, hoping to hear words that
would dissipate her fears.

"It was so obvious that we were meant for each other. So obvious
that I was the only man of your acquaintance who could love you
after knowing you as you really are--hard and greedy and
unscrupulous, like me. I loved you and I took the chance. I
thought Ashley would fade out of your mind. But," he shrugged, "I
tried everything I knew and nothing worked. And I loved you so,
Scarlett. If you had only let me, I could have loved you as gently
and as tenderly as ever a man loved a woman. But I couldn't let
you know, for I knew you'd think me weak and try to use my love
against me. And always--always there was Ashley. It drove me
crazy. I couldn't sit across the table from you every night,
knowing you wished Ashley was sitting there in my place. And I
couldn't hold you in my arms at night and know that--well, it
doesn't matter now. I wonder, now, why it hurt. That's what drove
me to Belle. There is a certain swinish comfort in being with a
woman who loves you utterly and respects you for being a fine
gentleman--even if she is an illiterate whore. It soothed my
vanity. You've never been very soothing, my dear."

"Oh, Rhett . . ." she began, miserable at the very mention of
Belle's name, but he waved her to silence and went on.

"And then, that night when I carried you upstairs--I thought--I
hoped--I hoped so much I was afraid to face you the next morning,
for fear I'd been mistaken and you didn't love me. I was so afraid
you'd laugh at me I went off and got drunk. And when I came back,
I was shaking in my boots and if you had come even halfway to meet
me, had given me some sign, I think I'd have kissed your feet. But
you didn't."

"Oh, but Rhett, I did want you then but you were so nasty! I did
want you! I think--yes, that must have been when I first knew I
cared about you. Ashley--I never was happy about Ashley after
that, but you were so nasty that I--"

"Oh, well," he said. "It seems we've been at cross purposes,
doesn't it? But it doesn't matter now. I'm only telling you, so
you won't ever wonder about it all. When you were sick and it was
all my fault, I stood outside your door, hoping you'd call for me,
but you didn't, and then I knew what a fool I'd been and that it
was all over."

He stopped and looked through her and beyond her, even as Ashley
had often done, seeing something she could not see. And she could
only stare speechless at his brooding face.

"But then, there was Bonnie and I saw that everything wasn't over,
after all. I liked to think that Bonnie was you, a little girl
again, before the war and poverty had done things to you. She was
so like you, so willful, so brave and gay and full of high spirits,
and I could pet her and spoil her--just as I wanted to pet you.
But she wasn't like you--she loved me. It was a blessing that I
could take the love you didn't want and give it to her. . . . When
she went, she took everything."

Suddenly she was sorry for him, sorry with a completeness that
wiped out her own grief and her fear of what his words might mean.
It was the first time in her life she had been sorry for anyone
without feeling contemptuous as well, because it was the first time
she had ever approached understanding any other human being. And
she could understand his shrewd caginess, so like her own, his
obstinate pride that kept him from admitting his love for fear of a
rebuff.

"Ah, darling," she said coming forward, hoping he would put out his
arms and draw her to his knees. "Darling, I'm so sorry but I'll
make it all up to you! We can be so happy, now that we know the
truth and--Rhett--look at me, Rhett! There--there can be other
babies--not like Bonnie but--"

"Thank you, no," said Rhett, as if he were refusing a piece of
bread. "I'll not risk my heart a third time."

"Rhett, don't say such things! Oh, what can I say to make you
understand? I've told you how sorry I am--"

"My darling, you're such a child. You think that by saying,
'I'm sorry,' all the errors and hurts of years past can be
remedied, obliterated from the mind, all the poison drawn from
old wounds. . . . Take my handkerchief, Scarlett. Never, at any
crisis of your life, have I known you to have a handkerchief."

She took the handkerchief, blew her nose and sat down. It was
obvious that he was not going to take her in his arms. It was
beginning to be obvious that all his talk about loving her meant
nothing. It was a tale of a time long past, and he was looking at
it as though it had never happened to him. And that was
frightening. He looked at her in an almost kindly way, speculation
in his eyes.

"How old are you, my dear? You never would tell me."

"Twenty-eight," she answered dully, muffled in the handkerchief.

"That's not a vast age. It's a young age to have gained the whole
world and lost your own soul, isn't it? Don't look frightened.
I'm not referring to hell fire to come for your affair with Ashley.
I'm merely speaking metaphorically. Ever since I've known you,
you've wanted two things. Ashley and to be rich enough to tell the
world to go to hell. Well, you are rich enough and you've spoken
sharply to the world and you've got Ashley, if you want him. But
all that doesn't seem to be enough now."

She was frightened but not at the thought of hell fire. She was
thinking: "But Rhett is my soul and I'm losing him. And if I lose
him, nothing else matters! No, not friends or money or--or
anything. If only I had him I wouldn't even mind being poor again.
No, I wouldn't mind being cold again or even hungry. But he can't
mean-- Oh, he can't!"

She wiped her eyes and said desperately:

"Rhett, if you once loved me so much, there must be something left
for me."

"Out of it all I find only two things that remain and they are the
two things you hate the most--pity and an odd feeling of kindness."

Pity! Kindness! "Oh, my God," she thought despairingly. Anything
but pity and kindness. Whenever she felt these two emotions for
anyone, they went hand in hand with contempt. Was he contemptuous
of her too? Anything would be preferable to that. Even the
cynical coolness of the war days, the drunken madness that drove
him the night he carried her up the stairs, his hard fingers
bruising her body, or the barbed drawling words that she now
realized had covered a bitter love. Anything except this
impersonal kindness that was written so plainly in his face.

"Then--then you mean I've ruined it all--that you don't love me any
more?"

"That's right."

"But," she said stubbornly, like a child who still feels that to
state a desire is to gain that desire, "but I love you!"

"That's your misfortune."

She looked up quickly to see if there was a jeer behind those words
but there was none. He was simply stating a fact. But it was a
fact she still would not believe--could not believe. She looked at
him with slanting eyes that burned with a desperate obstinacy and
the sudden hard line of jaw that sprang out through her soft cheek
was Gerald's jaw.

"Don't be a fool, Rhett! I can make--"

He flung up a hand in mock horror and his black brows went up in
the old sardonic crescents.

"Don't look so determined, Scarlett! You frighten me. I see you
are contemplating the transfer of your tempestuous affections from
Ashley to me and I fear for my liberty and my peace of mind. No,
Scarlett, I will not be pursued as the luckless Ashley was pursued.
Besides, I am going away."

Her jaw trembled before she clenched her teeth to steady it. Go
away? No, anything but that! How could life go on without him?
Everyone had gone from her, everyone who mattered except Rhett. He
couldn't go. But how could she stop him? She was powerless
against his cool mind, his disinterested words.

"I am going away. I intended to tell you when you came home from
Marietta."

"You are deserting me?"

"Don't be the neglected, dramatic wife, Scarlett. The role isn't
becoming. I take it, then, you do not want a divorce or even a
separation? Well, then, I'll come back often enough to keep gossip
down."

"Damn gossip!" she said fiercely. "It's you I want. Take me with
you!"

"No," he said, and there was finality in his voice. For a moment
she was on the verge of an outburst of childish wild tears. She
could have thrown herself on the floor, cursed and screamed and
drummed her heels. But some remnant of pride, of common sense
stiffened her. She thought, if I did, he'd only laugh, or just
look at me. I mustn't bawl; I mustn't beg. I mustn't do anything
to risk his contempt. He must respect me even--even if he doesn't
love me.

She lifted her chin and managed to ask quietly:

"Where will you go?"

There was a faint gleam of admiration in his eyes as he answered.

"Perhaps to England--or to Paris. Perhaps to Charleston to try to
make peace with my people."

"But you hate them! I've heard you laugh at them so often and--"

He shrugged.

"I still laugh--but I've reached the end of roaming, Scarlett. I'm
forty-five--the age when a man begins to value some of the things
he's thrown away so lightly in youth, the clannishness of families,
honor and security, roots that go deep-- Oh, no! I'm not recanting,
I'm not regretting anything I've ever done. I've had a hell of a
good time--such a hell of a good time that it's begun to pall and
now I want something different. No, I never intend to change more
than my spots. But I want the outer semblance of the things I used
to know, the utter boredom of respectability--other people's
respectability, my pet, not my own--the calm dignity life can have
when it's lived by gentle folks, the genial grace of days that are
gone. When I lived those days I didn't realize the slow charm of
them--"

Again Scarlett was back in the windy orchard of Tara and there was
the same look in Rhett's eyes that had been in Ashley's eyes that
day. Ashley's words were as clear in her ears as though he and not
Rhett were speaking. Fragments of words came back to her and she
quoted parrot-like: "A glamor to it--a perfection, a symmetry like
Grecian art."

Rhett said sharply: "Why did you say that? That's what I meant."

"It was something that--that Ashley said once, about the old days."

He shrugged and the light went out of his eyes.

"Always Ashley," he said and was silent for a moment.

"Scarlett, when you are forty-five, perhaps you will know what I'm
talking about and then perhaps you, too, will be tired of imitation
gentry and shoddy manners and cheap emotions. But I doubt it. I
think you'll always be more attracted by glister than by gold.
Anyway, I can't wait that long to see. And I have no desire to
wait. It just doesn't interest me. I'm going to hunt in old towns
and old countries where some of the old times must still linger.
I'm that sentimental. Atlanta's too raw for me, too new."

"Stop," she said suddenly. She had hardly heard anything he had
said. Certainly her mind had not taken it in. But she knew she
could no longer endure with any fortitude the sound of his voice
when there was no love in it.

He paused and looked at her quizzically.

"Well, you get my meaning, don't you?" he questioned, rising to his
feet.

She threw out her hands to him, palms up, in the age-old gesture of
appeal and her heart, again, was in her face.

"No," she cried. "All I know is that you do not love me and you
are going away! Oh, my darling, if you go, what shall I do?"

For a moment he hesitated as if debating whether a kind lie were
kinder in the long run than the truth. Then he shrugged.

"Scarlett, I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments
and glue them together and tell myself that the mended whole was as
good as new. What is broken is broken--and I'd rather remember it
as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken places as
long as I lived. Perhaps, if I were younger--" he sighed. "But
I'm too old to believe in such sentimentalities as clean slates and
starting all over. I'm too old to shoulder the burden of constant
lies that go with living in polite disillusionment. I couldn't
live with you and lie to you and I certainly couldn't lie to
myself. I can't even lie to you now. I wish I could care what you
do or where you go, but I can't."

He drew a short breath and said lightly but softly:

"My dear, I don't give a damn."


* * * * *


She silently watched him go up the stairs, feeling that she would
strangle at the pain in her throat. With the sound of his feet
dying away in the upper hall was dying the last thing in the world
that mattered. She knew now that there was no appeal of emotion or
reason which would turn that cool brain from its verdict. She knew
now that he had meant every word he said, lightly though some of
them had been spoken. She knew because she sensed in him something
strong, unyielding, implacable--all the qualities she had looked
for in Ashley and never found.

She had never understood either of the men she had loved and so she
had lost them both. Now, she had a fumbling knowledge that, had
she ever understood Ashley, she would never have loved him; had she
ever understood Rhett, she would never have lost him. She wondered
forlornly if she had ever really understood anyone in the world.

There was a merciful dullness in her mind now, a dullness that she
knew from long experience would soon give way to sharp pain, even
as severed tissues, shocked by the surgeon's knife, have a brief
instant of insensibility before their agony begins.

"I won't think of it now," she thought grimly, summoning up her old
charm. "I'll go crazy if I think about losing him now. I'll think
of it tomorrow."

"But," cried her heart, casting aside the charm and beginning to
ache, "I can't let him go! There must be some way!"

"I won't think of it now," she said again, aloud, trying to push
her misery to the back of her mind, trying to find some bulwark
against the rising tide of pain. "I'll--why, I'll go home to Tara
tomorrow," and her spirits lifted faintly.

She had gone back to Tara once in fear and defeat and she had
emerged from its sheltering walls strong and armed for victory.
What she had done once, somehow--please God, she could do again!
How, she did not know. She did not want to think of that now. All
she wanted was a breathing space in which to hurt, a quiet place to
lick her wounds, a haven in which to plan her campaign. She
thought of Tara and it was as if a gentle cool hand were stealing
over her heart. She could see the white house gleaming welcome to
her through the reddening autumn leaves, feel the quiet hush of the
country twilight coming down over her like a benediction, feel the
dews falling on the acres of green bushes starred with fleecy
white, see the raw color of the red earth and the dismal dark
beauty of the pines on the rolling hills.

She felt vaguely comforted, strengthened by the picture, and some
of her hurt and frantic regret was pushed from the top of her mind.
She stood for a moment remembering small things, the avenue of dark
cedars leading to Tara, the banks of cape jessamine bushes, vivid
green against the white walls, the fluttering white curtains. And
Mammy would be there. Suddenly she wanted Mammy desperately, as
she had wanted her when she was a little girl, wanted the broad
bosom on which to lay her head, the gnarled black hand on her hair.
Mammy, the last link with the old days.

With the spirit of her people who would not know defeat, even when
it stared them in the face, she raised her chin. She could get
Rhett back. She knew she could. There had never been a man she
couldn't get, once she set her mind upon him.

"I'll think of it all tomorrow, at Tara. I can stand it then.
Tomorrow, I'll think of some way to get him back. After all,
tomorrow is another day."



THE END