Weekly Meredy.com E-book - Gone with the Wind - Part Three

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Part Four

CHAPTER XXXI


On  a  cold  January  afternoon  in  1866, Scarlett sat in the office writing a letter to Aunt Pitty, explaining in detail for the tenth time why
neither  she,  Melanie  nor  Ashley  could come back to Atlanta to live with her. She wrote impatiently because she knew Aunt Pitty would read no
farther than the opening lines and then write her again, wailing: "But I'm afraid to live by myself!"

Her  hands  were  chilled and she paused to rub them together and to scuff her feet deeper into the strip of old quilting wrapped about them. The
soles  of  her slippers were practically gone and were reinforced with pieces of carpet. The carpet kept her feet off the floor but did little to
keep  them  warm. That morning Will had taken the horse to Jonesboro to get him shod. Scarlett thought grimly that things were indeed at a pretty
pass when horses had shoes and people's feet were as bare as yard dogs'.

She  picked  up her quill to resume her writing but laid it down when she heard Will coming in at the back door. She heard the thump-thump of his
wooden  leg  in  the hall outside the office and then he stopped. She waited for a moment for him to enter and when he made no move she called to
him. He came in, his ears red from the cold, his pinkish hair awry, and stood looking down at her, a faintly humorous smile on his lips.

"Miss Scarlett," he questioned, "just how much cash money have you got?"

"Are you going to try to marry me for my money, Will?" she asked somewhat crossly.

"No, Ma'm. But I just wanted to know."

She stared at him inquiringly. Will didn't look serious, but then he never looked serious. However, she felt that something was wrong.

"I've got ten dollars in gold," she said. "The last of that Yankee's money."

"Well, Ma'm, that won't be enough."

"Enough for what?"

"Enough for the taxes," he answered and, stumping over to the fireplace, he leaned down and held his red hands to the blaze.

"Taxes?" she repeated. "Name of God, Will! We've already paid the taxes."

"Yes'm. But they say you didn't pay enough. I heard about it today over to Jonesboro."

"But, Will, I can't understand. What do you mean?"

"Miss  Scarlett, I sure hate to bother you with more trouble when you've had your share but I've got to tell you. They say you ought to paid lots
more taxes than you did. They're runnin' the assessment up on Tara sky high--higher than any in the County, I'll be bound."

"But they can't make us pay more taxes when we've already paid them once."

"Miss  Scarlett,  you  don't never go to Jonesboro often and I'm glad you don't. It ain't no place for a lady these days. But if you'd been there
much,  you'd  know there's a mighty rough bunch of Scallawags and Republicans and Carpetbaggers been runnin' things recently. They'd make you mad
enough to pop. And then, too, niggers pushin' white folks off the sidewalks and--"

"But what's that got to do with our taxes?"

"I'm gettin' to it, Miss Scarlett. For some reason the rascals have histed the taxes on Tara till you'd think it was a thousand-bale place. After
I  heard about it, I sorter oozed around the barrooms pickin' up gossip and I found out that somebody wants to buy in Tara cheap at the sheriff's
sale,  if  you can't pay the extra taxes. And everybody knows pretty well that you can't pay them. I don't know yet who it is wants this place. I
couldn't find out. But I think that pusillanimous feller, Hilton, that married Miss Cathleen knows, because he laughed kind of nasty when I tried
to sound him out."

Will  sat  down on the sofa and rubbed the stump of his leg. It ached in cold weather and the wooden peg was neither well padded nor comfortable.
Scarlett looked at him wildly. His manner was so casual when he was sounding the death knell of Tara. Sold out at the sheriff's sale? Where would
they all go? And Tara belonging to some one else! No, that was unthinkable!

She  had  been  so engrossed with the job of making Tara produce she had paid little heed to what was going on in the world outside. Now that she
had  Will and Ashley to attend to whatever business she might have in Jonesboro and Fayetteville, she seldom left the plantation. And even as she
had  listened  with  deaf  ears  to  her  father's  war  talk  in  the days before the war came, so she had paid little heed to Will and Ashley's
discussions around the table after supper about the beginnings of Reconstruction.

Oh,  of  course,  she  knew about the Scallawags--Southerners who had turned Republican very profitably--and the Carpetbaggers, those Yankees who
came  South  like  buzzards after the surrender with all their worldly possessions in one carpetbag. And she had had a few unpleasant experiences
with  the  Freedmen's  Bureau.  She  had  gathered,  also,  that some of the free negroes were getting quite insolent. This last she could hardly
believe, for she had never seen an insolent negro in her life.

But  there  were  many  things which Will and Ashley had conspired to keep from her. The scourge of war had been followed by the worse scourge of
Reconstruction,  but the two men had agreed not to mention the more alarming details when they discussed the situation at home. And when Scarlett
took the trouble to listen to them at all, most of what they said went in one ear and out the other.

She  had  heard  Ashley  say  that  the  South  was  being treated as a conquered province and that vindictiveness was the dominant policy of the
conquerors.  But that was the kind of statement which meant less than nothing at all to Scarlett. Politics was men's business. She had heard Will
say  it  looked  to  him like the North just wasn't aiming to let the South get on its feet again. Well, thought Scarlett, men always had to have
something  foolish  to worry about. As far as she was concerned, the Yankees hadn't whipped her once and they wouldn't do it this time. The thing
to do was to work like the devil and stop worrying about the Yankee government. After all, the war was over.

Scarlett  did not realize that all the rules of the game had been changed and that honest labor could no longer earn its just reward. Georgia was
virtually  under  martial  law  now.  The Yankee soldiers garrisoned throughout the section and the Freedmen's Bureau were in complete command of
everything and they were fixing the rules to suit themselves.

This  Bureau,  organized by the Federal government to take care of the idle and excited ex-slaves, was drawing them from the plantations into the
villages  and  cities  by the thousands. The Bureau fed them while they loafed and poisoned their minds against their former owners. Gerald's old
overseer,  Jonas  Wilkerson, was in charge of the local Bureau, and his assistant was Hilton, Cathleen Calvert's husband. These two industriously
spread  the  rumor  that  the  Southerners  and  Democrats  were just waiting for a good chance to put the negroes back into slavery and that the
negroes' only hope of escaping this fate was the protection given them by the Bureau and the Republican party.

Wilkerson  and  Hilton  furthermore  told  the  negroes  they were as good as the whites in every way and soon white and negro marriages would be
permitted,  soon the estates of their former owners would be divided and every negro would be given forty acres and a mule for his own. They kept
the negroes stirred up with tales of cruelty perpetrated by the whites and, in a section long famed for the affectionate relations between slaves
and slave owners, hate and suspicion began to grow.

The  Bureau  was backed up by the soldiers and the military had issued many and conflicting orders governing the conduct of the conquered. It was
easy to get arrested, even for snubbing the officials of the Bureau. Military orders had been promulgated concerning the schools, sanitation, the
kind  of  buttons  one wore on one's suit, the sale of commodities and nearly everything else. Wilkerson and Hilton had the power to interfere in
any trade Scarlett might make and to fix their own prices on anything she sold or swapped.

Fortunately  Scarlett  had  come  into  contact  with the two men very little, for Will had persuaded her to let him handle the trading while she
managed the plantation. In his mild-tempered way, Will had straightened out several difficulties of this kind and said nothing to her about them.
Will  could  get  along with Carpetbaggers and Yankees--if he had to. But now a problem had arisen which was too big for him to handle. The extra
tax assessment and the danger of losing Tara were matters Scarlett had to know about--and right away.

She looked at him with flashing eyes.

"Oh, damn the Yankees!" she cried. "Isn't it enough that they've licked us and beggared us without turning loose scoundrels on us?"

The  war was over, peace had been declared, but the Yankees could still rob her, they could still starve her, they could still drive her from her
house.  And  fool that she was, she had thought through weary months that if she could just hold out until spring, everything would be all right.
This crushing news brought by Will, coming on top of a year of back-breaking work and hope deferred, was the last straw.

"Oh, Will, and I thought our troubles were all over when the war ended!"

"No'm." Will raised his lantern-jawed, country-looking face and gave her a long steady look. "Our troubles are just gettin' started."

"How much extra taxes do they want us to pay?"

"Three hundred dollars."

She was struck dumb for a moment. Three hundred dollars! It might just as well be three million dollars.

"Why," she floundered, "why--why, then we've got to raise three hundred, somehow."

"Yes'm--and a rainbow and a moon or two."

"Oh, but Will! They couldn't sell out Tara. Why--"

His mild pale eyes showed more hate and bitterness than she thought possible.

"Oh,  couldn't  they? Well, they could and they will and they'll like doin' it! Miss Scarlett, the country's gone plumb to hell, if you'll pardon
me.  Those  Carpetbaggers and Scallawags can vote and most of us Democrats can't. Can't no Democrat in this state vote if he was on the tax books
for  more than two thousand dollars in 'sixty-five. That lets out folks like your pa and Mr. Tarleton and the McRaes and the Fontaine boys. Can't
nobody vote who was a colonel and over in the war and, Miss Scarlett, I bet this state's got more colonels than any state in the Confederacy. And
can't nobody vote who held office under the Confederate government and that lets out everybody from the notaries to the judges, and the woods are
full of folks like that. Fact is, the way the Yankees have framed up that amnesty oath, can't nobody who was somebody before the war vote at all.
Not the smart folks nor the quality folks nor the rich folks.

"Huh!  I  could  vote if I took their damned oath. I didn't have any money in 'sixty-five and I certainly warn't a colonel or nothin' remarkable.
But  I ain't goin' to take their oath. Not by a dinged sight! If the Yankees had acted right, I'd have taken their oath of allegiance but I ain't
now. I can be restored to the Union but I can't be reconstructed into it. I ain't goin' to take their oath even if I don't never vote again-- But
scum  like  that  Hilton  feller,  he  can  vote,  and  scoundrels like Jonas Wilkerson and pore whites like the Slatterys and no-counts like the
MacIntoshes,  they  can vote. And they're runnin' things now. And if they want to come down on you for extra taxes a dozen times, they can do it.
Just  like a nigger can kill a white man and not get hung or--" He paused, embarrassed, and the memory of what had happened to a lone white woman
on  an  isolated  farm  near  Lovejoy  was in both their minds. . . . "Those niggers can do anything against us and the Freedmen's Bureau and the
soldiers will back them up with guns and we can't vote or do nothin' about it."

"Vote!"  she  cried.  "Vote!  What on earth has voting got to do with all this, Will? It's taxes we're talking about. . . . Will, everybody knows
what a good plantation Tara is. We could mortgage it for enough to pay the taxes, if we had to."

"Miss  Scarlett,  you  ain't  any  fool  but  sometimes  you  talk  like  one.  Who's  got any money to lend you on this property? Who except the
Carpetbaggers who are tryin' to take Tara away from you? Why, everybody's got land. Everybody's land pore. You can't give away land."

"I've got those diamond earbobs I got off that Yankee. We could sell them."

"Miss  Scarlett,  who 'round here has got money for earbobs? Folks ain't got money to buy side meat, let alone gewgaws. If you've got ten dollars
in gold, I take oath that's more than most folks have got."

They were silent again and Scarlett felt as if she were butting her head against a stone wall. There had been so many stone walls to butt against
this last year.

"What are we goin' to do, Miss Scarlett?"

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  dully and felt that she didn't care. This was one stone wall too many and she suddenly felt so tired that her bones
ached. Why should she work and struggle and wear herself out? At the end of every struggle it seemed that defeat was waiting to mock her.

"I don't know," she said. "But don't let Pa know. It might worry him."

"I won't."

"Have you told anyone?"

"No, I came right to you."

Yes, she thought, everyone always came right to her with bad news and she was tired of it.

"Where is Mr. Wilkes? Perhaps he'll have some suggestion."

Will turned his mild gaze on her and she felt, as from the first day when Ashley came home, that he knew everything.

"He's down in the orchard splittin' rails. I heard his axe when I was puttin' up the horse. But he ain't got any money any more than we have."

"If I want to talk to him about it, I can, can't I?" she snapped, rising to her feet and kicking the fragment of quilting from her ankles.

Will did not take offense but continued rubbing his hands before the flame. "Better get your shawl, Miss Scarlett. It's raw outside."

But she went without the shawl, for it was upstairs and her need to see Ashley and lay her troubles before him was too urgent to wait.

How lucky for her if she could find him alone! Never once since his return had she had a private word with him. Always the family clustered about
him,  always  Melanie  was  by  his  side,  touching  his  sleeve  now and again to reassure herself he was really there. The sight of that happy
possessive  gesture  had aroused in Scarlett all the jealous animosity which had slumbered during the months when she had thought Ashley probably
dead. Now she was determined to see him alone. This time no one was going to prevent her from talking with him alone.



She  went  through the orchard under the bare boughs and the damp weeds beneath them wet her feet. She could hear the sound of the axe ringing as
Ashley  split into rails the logs hauled from the swamp. Replacing the fences the Yankees had so blithely burned was a long hard task. Everything
was a long hard task, she thought wearily, and she was tired of it, tired and mad and sick of it all. If only Ashley were her husband, instead of
Melanie's,  how  sweet  it would be to go to him and lay her head upon his shoulder and cry and shove her burdens onto him to work out as best he
might.

She  rounded  a  thicket  of pomegranate trees which were shaking bare limbs in the cold wind and saw him leaning on his axe, wiping his forehead
with  the  back  of his hand. He was wearing the remains of his butternut trousers and one of Gerald's shirts, a shirt which in better times went
only  to  Court  days  and barbecues, a ruffled shirt which was far too short for its present owner. He had hung his coat on a tree limb, for the
work was hot, and he stood resting as she came up to him.

At the sight of Ashley in rags, with an axe in his hand, her heart went out in a surge of love and of fury at fate. She could not bear to see him
in  tatters,  working,  her debonaire immaculate Ashley. His hands were not made for work or his body for anything but broadcloth and fine linen.
God  intended him to sit in a great house, talking with pleasant people, playing the piano and writing things which sounded beautiful and made no
sense whatsoever.

She  could  endure the sight of her own child in aprons made of sacking and the girls in dingy old gingham, could bear it that Will worked harder
than  any  field  hand, but not Ashley. He was too fine for all this, too infinitely dear to her. She would rather split logs herself than suffer
while he did it.

"They say Abe Lincoln got his start splitting rails," he said as she came up to him. "Just think to what heights I may climb!"

She  frowned.  He  was  always saying light things like this about their hardships. They were deadly serious matters to her and sometimes she was
almost irritated at his remarks.

Abruptly  she  told  him  Will's news, tersely and in short words, feeling a sense of relief as she spoke. Surely, he'd have something helpful to
offer. He said nothing but, seeing her shiver, he took his coat and placed it about her shoulders.

"Well," she said finally, "doesn't it occur to you that we'll have to get the money somewhere?"

"Yes," he said, "but where?"

"I'm  asking  you," she replied, annoyed. The sense of relief at unburdening herself had disappeared. Even if he couldn't help, why didn't he say
something comforting, even if it was only: "Oh, I'm so sorry."

He smiled.

"In all these months since I've been home I've only heard of one person, Rhett Butler, who actually has money," he said.

Aunt  Pittypat  had  written  Melanie  the  week  before  that  Rhett  was  back in Atlanta with a carriage and two fine horses and pocketfuls of
greenbacks.  She had intimated, however, that he didn't come by them honestly. Aunt Pitty had a theory, largely shared by Atlanta, that Rhett had
managed to get away with the mythical millions of the Confederate treasury.

"Don't let's talk about him," said Scarlett shortly. "He's a skunk if ever there was one. What's to become of us all?"

Ashley put down the axe and looked away and his eyes seemed to be journeying to some far-off country where she could not follow.

"I wonder," he said. "I wonder not only what will become of us at Tara but what will become of everybody in the South."

She  felt like snapping out abruptly: "To hell with everybody in the South! What about us?" but she remained silent because the tired feeling was
back on her more strongly than ever. Ashley wasn't being any help at all.

"In the end what will happen will be what has happened whenever a civilization breaks up. The people who have brains and courage come through and
the ones who haven't are winnowed out. At least, it has been interesting, if not comfortable, to witness a Gotterdammerung."

"A what?"

"A dusk of the gods. Unfortunately, we Southerners did think we were gods."

"For Heaven's sake, Ashley Wilkes! Don't stand there and talk nonsense at me when it's us who are going to be winnowed out!"

Something of her exasperated weariness seemed to penetrate his mind, calling it back from its wanderings, for he raised her hands with tenderness
and, turning them palm up, looked at the calluses.

"These  are  the most beautiful hands I know," he said and kissed each palm lightly. "They are beautiful because they are strong and every callus
is  a  medal,  Scarlett,  every  blister  an  award  for bravery and unselfishness. They've been roughened for all of us, your father, the girls,
Melanie,  the  baby,  the  negroes  and  for me. My dear, I know what you are thinking. You're thinking, 'Here stands an impractical fool talking
tommyrot about dead gods when living people are in danger.' Isn't that true?"

She nodded, wishing he would keep on holding her hands forever, but he dropped them.

"And you came to me, hoping I could help you. Well, I can't."

His eyes were bitter as he looked toward the axe and the pile of logs.

"My home is gone and all the money that I so took for granted I never realized I had it. And I am fitted for nothing in this world, for the world
I  belonged in has gone. I can't help you, Scarlett, except by learning with as good grace as possible to be a clumsy farmer. And that won't keep
Tara  for  you.  Don't  you think I realize the bitterness of our situation, living here on your charity-- Oh, yes, Scarlett, your charity. I can
never  repay you what you've done for me and for mine out of the kindness of your heart. I realize it more acutely every day. And every day I see
more  clearly  how  helpless I am to cope with what has come on us all-- Every day my accursed shrinking from realities makes it harder for me to
face the new realities. Do you know what I mean?"

She  nodded.  She had no very clear idea what he meant but she clung breathlessly on his words. This was the first time he had ever spoken to her
of the things he was thinking when he seemed so remote from her. It excited her as if she were on the brink of a discovery.

"It's  a curse--this not wanting to look on naked realities. Until the war, life was never more real to me than a shadow show on a curtain. And I
preferred it so. I do not like the outlines of things to be too sharp. I like them gently blurred, a little hazy."

He stopped and smiled faintly, shivering a little as the cold wind went through his thin shirt.

"In other words, Scarlett, I am a coward."

His  talk  of  shadow  shows and hazy outlines conveyed no meaning to her but his last words were in language she could understand. She knew they
were  untrue.  Cowardice  was  not in him. Every line of his slender body spoke of generations of brave and gallant men and Scarlett knew his war
record by heart.

"Why,  that's not so! Would a coward have climbed on the cannon at Gettysburg and rallied the men? Would the General himself have written Melanie
a letter about a coward? And--"

"That's  not  courage,"  he  said  tiredly. "Fighting is like champagne. It goes to the heads of cowards as quickly as of heroes. Any fool can be
brave on a battle field when it's be brave or else be killed. I'm talking of something else. And my kind of cowardice is infinitely worse than if
I had run the first time I heard a cannon fired."

His  words  came slowly and with difficulty as if it hurt to speak them and he seemed to stand off and look with a sad heart at what he had said.
Had  any  other  man  spoken so, Scarlett would have dismissed such protestations contemptuously as mock modesty and a bid for praise. But Ashley
seemed  to  mean  them and there was a look in his eyes which eluded her--not fear, not apology, but the bracing to a strain which was inevitable
and  overwhelming.  The  wintry  wind  swept her damp ankles and she shivered again but her shiver was less from the wind than from the dread his
words evoked in her heart.

"But, Ashley, what are you afraid of?"

"Oh,  nameless  things.  Things  which  sound  very  silly when they are put into words. Mostly of having life suddenly become too real, of being
brought into personal, too personal, contact with some of the simple facts of life. It isn't that I mind splitting logs here in the mud, but I do
mind  what  it  stands  for.  I do mind, very much, the loss of the beauty of the old life I loved. Scarlett, before the war, life was beautiful.
There was a glamor to it, a perfection and a completeness and a symmetry to it like Grecian art. Maybe it wasn't so to everyone. I know that now.
But to me, living at Twelve Oaks, there was a real beauty to living. I belonged in that life. I was a part of it. And now it is gone and I am out
of  place  in this new life, and I am afraid. Now, I know that in the old days it was a shadow show I watched. I avoided everything which was not
shadowy,  people and situations which were too real, too vital. I resented their intrusion. I tried to avoid you too, Scarlett. You were too full
of living and too real and I was cowardly enough to prefer shadows and dreams."

"But--but--Melly?"

"Melanie  is  the  gentlest  of  dreams  and a part of my dreaming. And if the war had not come I would have lived out my life, happily buried at
Twelve  Oaks, contentedly watching life go by and never being a part of it. But when the war came, life as it really is thrust itself against me.
The  first  time  I  went into action--it was at Bull Run, you remember--I saw my boyhood friends blown to bits and heard dying horses scream and
learned  the  sickeningly horrible feeling of seeing men crumple up and spit blood when I shot them. But those weren't the worst things about the
war, Scarlett. The worst thing about the war was the people I had to live with.

"I  had  sheltered myself from people all my life, I had carefully selected my few friends. But the war taught me I had created a world of my own
with dream people in it. It taught me what people really are, but it didn't teach me how to live with them. And I'm afraid I'll never learn. Now,
I  know  that  in order to support my wife and child, I will have to make my way among a world of people with whom I have nothing in common. You,
Scarlett, are taking life by the horns and twisting it to your will. But where do I fit in the world any more? I tell you I am afraid."

While  his  low  resonant  voice went on, desolate, with a feeling she could not understand, Scarlett clutched at words here and there, trying to
make  sense  of them. But the words swooped from her hands like wild birds. Something was driving him, driving him with a cruel goad, but she did
not understand what it was.

"Scarlett,  I  don't know just when it was that the bleak realization came over me that my own private shadow show was over. Perhaps in the first
five minutes at Bull Run when I saw the first man I killed drop to the ground. But I knew it was over and I could no longer be a spectator. No, I
suddenly  found  myself  on  the curtain, an actor, posturing and making futile gestures. My little inner world was gone, invaded by people whose
thoughts  were  not  my  thoughts, whose actions were as alien as a Hottentot's. They'd tramped through my world with slimy feet and there was no
place left where I could take refuge when things became too bad to stand. When I was in prison, I thought: When the war is over, I can go back to
the  old life and the old dreams and watch the shadow show again. But, Scarlett, there's no going back. And this which is facing all of us now is
worse than war and worse than prison--and, to me, worse than death. . . . So, you see, Scarlett, I'm being punished for being afraid."

"But, Ashley," she began, floundering in a quagmire of bewilderment, "if you're afraid we'll starve, why--why-- Oh, Ashley, we'll manage somehow!
I know we will!"

For  a moment, his eyes came back to her, wide and crystal gray, and there was admiration in them. Then, suddenly, they were remote again and she
knew  with  a  sinking  heart  that  he had not been thinking about starving. They were always like two people talking to each other in different
languages.  But  she  loved  him so much that, when he withdrew as he had now done, it was like the warm sun going down and leaving her in chilly
twilight  dews.  She  wanted to catch him by the shoulders and hug him to her, make him realize that she was flesh and blood and not something he
had  read  or  dreamed.  If she could only feel that sense of oneness with him for which she had yearned since that day, so long ago, when he had
come home from Europe and stood on the steps of Tara and smiled up at her.

"Starving's  not  pleasant," he said. "I know for I've starved, but I'm not afraid of that. I am afraid of facing life without the slow beauty of
our old world that is gone."

Scarlett  thought  despairingly  that  Melanie  would know what he meant. Melly and he were always talking such foolishness, poetry and books and
dreams  and moonrays and star dust. He was not fearing the things she feared, not the gnawing of an empty stomach, nor the keenness of the winter
wind  nor  eviction from Tara. He was shrinking before some fear she had never known and could not imagine. For, in God's name, what was there to
fear in this wreck of a world but hunger and cold and the loss of home?

And she had thought that if she listened closely she would know the answer to Ashley.

"Oh!"  she said and the disappointment in her voice was that of a child who opens a beautifully wrapped package to find it empty. At her tone, he
smiled ruefully as though apologizing.

"Forgive  me,  Scarlett, for talking so. I can't make you understand because you don't know the meaning of fear. You have the heart of a lion and
an utter lack of imagination and I envy you both of those qualities. You'll never mind facing realities and you'll never want to escape from them
as I do."

"Escape!"

It  was  as  if  that  were  the only understandable word he had spoken. Ashley, like her, was tired of the struggle and he wanted to escape. Her
breath came fast.

"Oh, Ashley," she cried, "you're wrong. I do want to escape, too. I am so very tired of it all!"

His eyebrows went up in disbelief and she laid a hand, feverish and urgent, on his arm.

"Listen  to  me," she began swiftly, the words tumbling out one over the other. "I'm tired of it all, I tell you. Bone tired and I'm not going to
stand it any longer. I've struggled for food and for money and I've weeded and hoed and picked cotton and I've even plowed until I can't stand it
another  minute. I tell you, Ashley, the South is dead! It's dead! The Yankees and the free niggers and the Carpetbaggers have got it and there's
nothing left for us. Ashley, let's run away!"

He peered at her sharply, lowering his head to look into her face, now flaming with color.

"Yes, let's run away--leave them all! I'm tired of working for the folks. Somebody will take care of them. There's always somebody who takes care
of people who can't take care of themselves. Oh, Ashley, let's run away, you and I. We could go to Mexico--they want officers in the Mexican Army
and we could be so happy there. I'd work for you, Ashley. I'd do anything for you. You know you don't love Melanie--"

He started to speak, a stricken look on his face, but she stemmed his words with a torrent of her own.

"You  told  me  you loved me better than her that day--oh, you remember that day! And I know you haven't changed! I can tell you haven't changed!
And  you've  just  said  she  was  nothing  but a dream--Oh, Ashley, let's go away! I could make you so happy. And anyway," she added venomously,
"Melanie can't-- Dr. Fontaine said she couldn't ever have any more children and I could give you--"

His hands were on her shoulders so tightly that they hurt and she stopped, breathless.

"We were to forget that day at Twelve Oaks."

"Do you think I could ever forget it? Have you forgotten it? Can you honestly say you don't love me?"

He drew a deep breath and answered quickly.

"No. I don't love you."

"That's a lie."

"Even if it is a lie," said Ashley and his voice was deadly quiet, "it is not something which can be discussed."

"You mean--"

"Do  you think I could go off and leave Melanie and the baby, even if I hated them both? Break Melanie's heart? Leave them both to the charity of
friends?  Scarlett,  are  you  mad?  Isn't  there  any  sense  of  loyalty  in  you?  You  couldn't leave your father and the girls. They're your
responsibility, just as Melanie and Beau are mine, and whether you are tired or not, they are here and you've got to bear them."

"I could leave them--I'm sick of them--tired of them--"

He  leaned  toward her and, for a moment, she thought with a catch at her heart that he was going to take her in his arms. But instead, he patted
her arm and spoke as one comforting a child.

"I  know  you're  sick  and  tired. That's why you are talking this way. You've carried the load of three men. But I'm going to help you--I won't
always be so awkward--"

"There's  only  one  way you can help me," she said dully, "and that's to take me away from here and give us a new start somewhere, with a chance
for happiness. There's nothing to keep us here."

"Nothing," he said quietly, "nothing--except honor."

She looked at him with baffled longing and saw, as if for the first time, how the crescents of his lashes were the thick rich gold of ripe wheat,
how  proudly  his  head sat upon his bared neck and how the look of race and dignity persisted in his slim erect body, even through its grotesque
rags. Her eyes met his, hers naked with pleading, his remote as mountain lakes under gray skies.

She saw in them defeat of her wild dream, her mad desires.

Heartbreak  and  weariness  sweeping  over her, she dropped her head in her hands and cried. He had never seen her cry. He had never thought that
women  of  her  strong  mettle  had tears, and a flood of tenderness and remorse swept him. He came to her swiftly and in a moment had her in his
arms, cradling her comfortingly, pressing her black head to his heart, whispering: "Dear! My brave dear--don't! You mustn't cry!"

At  his  touch, he felt her change within his grip and there was madness and magic in the slim body he held and a hot soft glow in the green eyes
which  looked up at him. Of a sudden, it was no longer bleak winter. For Ashley, spring was back again, that half-forgotten balmy spring of green
rustlings  and  murmurings, a spring of ease and indolence, careless days when the desires of youth were warm in his body. The bitter years since
then fell away and he saw that the lips turned up to his were red and trembling and he kissed her.

There  was a curious low roaring sound in her ears as of sea shells held against them and through the sound she dimly heard the swift thudding of
her  heart.  Her  body  seemed to melt into his and, for a timeless time, they stood fused together as his lips took hers hungrily as if he could
never have enough.

When  he  suddenly  released her she felt that she could not stand alone and gripped the fence for support. She raised eyes blazing with love and
triumph to him.

"You do love me! You do love me! Say it--say it!"

His  hands still rested on her shoulders and she felt them tremble and loved their trembling. She leaned toward him ardently but he held her away
from him, looking at her with eyes from which all remoteness had fled, eyes tormented with struggle and despair.

"Don't!" he said. "Don't! If you do, I shall take you now, here."

She smiled a bright hot smile which was forgetful of time or place or anything but the memory of his mouth on hers.

Suddenly he shook her, shook her until her black hair tumbled down about her shoulders, shook her as if in a mad rage at her--and at himself.

"We won't do this!" he said. "I tell you we won't do it!"

It  seemed  as if her neck would snap if he shook her again. She was blinded by her hair and stunned by his action. She wrenched herself away and
stared  at him. There were small beads of moisture on his forehead and his fists were curled into claws as if in pain. He looked at her directly,
his gray eyes piercing.

"It's all my fault--none of yours and it will never happen again, because I am going to take Melanie and the baby and go."

"Go?" she cried in anguish. "Oh, no!"

"Yes, by God! Do you think I'll stay here after this? When this might happen again--"

"But, Ashley, you can't go. Why should you go? You love me--"

"You want me to say it? All right, I'll say it. I love you."

He leaned over her with a sudden savagery which made her shrink back against the fence.

"I  love  you,  your courage and your stubbornness and your fire and your utter ruthlessness. How much do I love you? So much that a moment ago I
would  have  outraged the hospitality of the house which has sheltered me and my family, forgotten the best wife any man ever had--enough to take
you here in the mud like a--"

She  struggled  with  a chaos of thoughts and there was a cold pain in her heart as if an icicle had pierced it. She said haltingly: "If you felt
like that--and didn't take me--then you don't love me."

"I can never make you understand."

They  fell silent and looked at each other. Suddenly Scarlett shivered and saw, as if coming back from a long journey, that it was winter and the
fields  were bare and harsh with stubble and she was very cold. She saw too that the old aloof face of Ashley, the one she knew so well, had come
back and it was wintry too, and harsh with hurt and remorse.

She would have turned and left him then, seeking the shelter of the house to hide herself, but she was too tired to move. Even speech was a labor
and a weariness.

"There is nothing left," she said at last. "Nothing left for me. Nothing to love. Nothing to fight for. You are gone and Tara is going."

He looked at her for a long space and then, leaning, scooped up a small wad of red clay from the ground.

"Yes,  there is something left," he said, and the ghost of his old smile came back, the smile which mocked himself as well as her. "Something you
love better than me, though you may not know it. You've still got Tara."

He  took  her  limp hand and pressed the damp clay into it and closed her fingers about it. There was no fever in his hands now, nor in hers. She
looked  at  the  red soil for a moment and it meant nothing to her. She looked at him and realized dimly that there was an integrity of spirit in
him which was not to be torn apart by her passionate hands, nor by any hands.

If  it  killed him, he would never leave Melanie. If he burned for Scarlett until the end of his days, he would never take her and he would fight
to keep her at a distance. She would never again get through that armor. The words, hospitality and loyalty and honor, meant more to him than she
did.

The clay was cold in her hand and she looked at it again.

"Yes," she said, "I've still got this."

At  first, the words meant nothing and the clay was only red clay. But unbidden came the thought of the sea of red dirt which surrounded Tara and
how  very  dear  it  was  and how hard she had fought to keep it--how hard she was going to have to fight if she wished to keep it hereafter. She
looked  at him again and wondered where the hot flood of feeling had gone. She could think but could not feel, not about him nor Tara either, for
she was drained of all emotion.

"You need not go," she said clearly. "I won't have you all starve, simply because I've thrown myself at your head. It will never happen again."

She turned away and started back toward the house across the rough fields, twisting her hair into a knot upon her neck. Ashley watched her go and
saw her square her small thin shoulders as she went. And that gesture went to his heart, more than any words she had spoken.



CHAPTER XXXII


She  was  still  clutching  the ball of red clay when she went up the front steps. She had carefully avoided the back entrance, for Mammy's sharp
eyes  would  certainly  have  seen that something was greatly amiss. Scarlett did not want to see Mammy or anyone else. She did not feel that she
could  endure  seeing  anyone or talking to anyone again. She had no feeling of shame or disappointment or bitterness now, only a weakness of the
knees and a great emptiness of heart. She squeezed the clay so tightly it ran out from her clenched fist and she said over and over, parrot-like:
"I've still got this. Yes, I've still got this."

There  was nothing else she did have, nothing but this red land, this land she had been willing to throw away like a torn handkerchief only a few
minutes  before.  Now,  it was dear to her again and she wondered dully what madness had possessed her to hold it so lightly. Had Ashley yielded,
she could have gone away with him and left family and friends without a backward look but, even in her emptiness, she knew it would have torn her
heart to leave these dear red hills and long washed gullies and gaunt black pines. Her thoughts would have turned back to them hungrily until the
day  she  died. Not even Ashley could have filled the empty spaces in her heart where Tara had been uprooted. How wise Ashley was and how well he
knew her! He had only to press the damp earth into her hand to bring her to her senses.

She was in the hall preparing to close the door when she heard the sound of horse's hooves and turned to look down the driveway. To have visitors
at this of all times was too much. She'd hurry to her room and plead a headache.

But  when  the  carriage came nearer, her flight was checked by her amazement. It was a new carriage, shiny with varnish, and the harness was new
too, with bits of polished brass here and there. Strangers, certainly. No one she knew had the money for such a grand new turn-out as this.

She  stood  in the doorway watching, the cold draft blowing her skirts about her damp ankles. Then the carriage stopped in front of the house and
Jonas  Wilkerson  alighted.  Scarlett was so surprised at the sight of their former overseer driving so fine a rig and in so splendid a greatcoat
she  could  not  for a moment believe her eyes. Will had told her he looked quite prosperous since he got his new job with the Freedmen's Bureau.
Made  a  lot  of  money,  Will  said,  swindling  the niggers or the government, one or tuther, or confiscating folks' cotton and swearing it was
Confederate government cotton. Certainly he never came by all that money honestly in these hard times.

And  here  he  was now, stepping out of an elegant carriage and handing down a woman dressed within an inch of her life. Scarlett saw in a glance
that  the  dress was bright in color to the point of vulgarity but nevertheless her eyes went over the outfit hungrily. It had been so long since
she had even seen stylish new clothes. Well! So hoops aren't so wide this year, she thought, scanning the red plaid gown. And, as she took in the
black  velvet  paletot,  how  short  jackets  are! And what a cunning hat! Bonnets must be out of style, for this hat was only an absurd flat red
velvet affair, perched on the top of the woman's head like a stiffened pancake. The ribbons did not tie under the chin as bonnet ribbons tied but
in  the back under the massive bunch of curls which fell from the rear of the hat, curls which Scarlett could not help noticing did not match the
woman's hair in either color or texture.

As  the  woman  stepped  to  the ground and looked toward the house, Scarlett saw there was something familiar about the rabbity face, caked with
white powder.

"Why, it's Emmie Slattery!" she cried, so surprised she spoke the words aloud.

"Yes'm, it's me," said Emmie, tossing her head with an ingratiating smile and starting toward the steps.

Emmie  Slattery!  The dirty tow-headed slut whose illegitimate baby Ellen had baptized, Emmie who had given typhoid to Ellen and killed her. This
overdressed,  common,  nasty  piece  of poor white trash was coming up the steps of Tara, bridling and grinning as if she belonged here. Scarlett
thought of Ellen and, in a rush, feeling came back into the emptiness of her mind, a murderous rage so strong it shook her like the ague.

"Get off those steps, you trashy wench!" she cried. "Get off this land! Get out!"

Emmie's jaw sagged suddenly and she glanced at Jonas who came up with lowering brows. He made an effort at dignity, despite his anger.

"You must not speak that way to my wife," he said.

"Wife?"  said  Scarlett  and  burst into a laugh that was cutting with contempt. "High time you made her your wife. Who baptized your other brats
after you killed my mother?"

Emmie said "Oh!" and retreated hastily down the steps but Jonas stopped her flight toward the carriage with a rough grip on her arm.

"We came out here to pay a call--a friendly call," he snarled. "And talk a little business with old friends--"

"Friends?"  Scarlett's voice was like a whiplash. "When were we ever friends with the like of you? The Slatterys lived on our charity and paid it
back  by  killing  Mother--and  you--you--  Pa  discharged  you about Emmie's brat and you know it. Friends? Get off this place before I call Mr.
Benteen and Mr. Wilkes."

Under  the  words,  Emmie  broke her husband's hold and fled for the carriage, scrambling in with a flash of patent-leather boots with bright-red
tops and red tassels.

Now Jonas shook with a fury equal to Scarlett's and his sallow face was as red as an angry turkey gobbler's.

"Still high and mighty, aren't you? Well, I know all about you. I know you haven't got shoes for your feet. I know your father's turned idiot--"

"Get off this place!"

"Oh,  you  won't  sing  that way very long. I know you're broke. I know you can't even pay your taxes. I came out here to offer to buy this place
from  you--to  make  you  a  right good offer. Emmie had a hankering to live here. But, by God, I won't give you a cent now! You highflying, bog-
trotting  Irish will find out who's running things around here when you get sold out for taxes. And I'll buy this place, lock, stock and barrel--
furniture and all--and I'll live in it."

So it was Jonas Wilkerson who wanted Tara--Jonas and Emmie, who in some twisted way thought to even past slights by living in the home where they
had  been slighted. All her nerves hummed with hate, as they had hummed that day when she shoved the pistol barrel into the Yankee's bearded face
and fired. She wished she had that pistol now.

"I'll  tear  this  house down, stone by stone, and burn it and sow every acre with salt before I see either of you put foot over this threshold,"
she shouted. "Get out, I tell you! Get out!"

Jonas  glared  at her, started to say more and then walked toward the carriage. He climbed in beside his whimpering wife and turned the horse. As
they  drove  off, Scarlett had the impulse to spit at them. She did spit. She knew it was a common, childish gesture but it made her feel better.
She wished she had done it while they could see her.

Those  damned nigger lovers daring to come here and taunt her about her poverty! That hound never intended offering her a price for Tara. He just
used  that as an excuse to come and flaunt himself and Emmie in her face. The dirty Scallawags, the lousy trashy poor whites, boasting they would
live at Tara!

Then,  sudden  terror  struck her and her rage melted. God's nightgown! They will come and live here! There was nothing she could do to keep them
from buying Tara, nothing to keep them from levying on every mirror and table and bed, on Ellen's shining mahogany and rosewood, and every bit of
it  precious  to  her,  scarred  though  it  was  by  the  Yankee raiders. And the Robillard silver too. I won't let them do it, thought Scarlett
vehemently. No, not if I've got to burn the place down! Emmie Slattery will never set her foot on a single bit of flooring Mother ever walked on!

She closed the door and leaned against it and she was very frightened. More frightened even than she had been that day when Sherman's army was in
the  house.  That day the worst she could fear was that Tara would be burned over her head. But this was worse--these low common creatures living
in this house, bragging to their low common friends how they had turned the proud O'Haras out. Perhaps they'd even bring negroes here to dine and
sleep.  Will  had  told her Jonas made a great to-do about being equal with the negroes, ate with them, visited in their houses, rode them around
with him in his carriage, put his arms around their shoulders.

When she thought of the possibility of this final insult to Tara, her heart pounded so hard she could scarcely breathe. She was trying to get her
mind  on her problem, trying to figure some way out, but each time she collected her thoughts, fresh gusts of rage and fear shook her. There must
be  some  way out, there must be someone somewhere who had money she could borrow. Money couldn't just dry up and blow away. Somebody had to have
money. Then the laughing words of Ashley came back to her:

"Only one person, Rhett Butler . . . who has money."

Rhett  Butler.  She  walked  quickly into the parlor and shut the door behind her. The dim gloom of drawn blinds and winter twilight closed about
her.  No one would think of hunting for her here and she wanted time to think, undisturbed. The idea which had just occurred to her was so simple
she wondered why she had not thought of it before.

"I'll  get the money from Rhett. I'll sell him the diamond earbobs. Or I'll borrow the money from him and let him keep the earbobs till I can pay
him back."

For  a  moment,  relief  was so great she felt weak. She would pay the taxes and laugh in Jonas Wilkerson's face. But close on this happy thought
came relentless knowledge.

"It's  not  only for this year that I'll need tax money. There's next year and all the years of my life. If I pay up this time, they'll raise the
taxes  higher  next time till they drive me out. If I make a good cotton crop, they'll tax it till I'll get nothing for it or maybe confiscate it
outright and say it's Confederate cotton. The Yankees and the scoundrels teamed up with them have got me where they want me. All my life, as long
as I live, I'll be afraid they'll get me somehow. All my life I'll be scared and scrambling for money and working myself to death, only to see my
work  go for nothing and my cotton stolen. . . . Just borrowing three hundred dollars for the taxes will be only a stopgap. What I want is to get
out  of  this  fix, for good--so I can go to sleep at night without worrying over what's going to happen to me tomorrow, and next month, and next
year."

Her  mind  ticked on steadily. Coldly and logically an idea grew in her brain. She thought of Rhett, a flash of white teeth against swarthy skin,
sardonic  black  eyes caressing her. She recalled the hot night in Atlanta, close to the end of the siege, when he sat on Aunt Pitty's porch half
hidden  in  the  summer  darkness,  and she felt again the heat of his hand upon her arm as he said: "I want you more than I have ever wanted any
woman--and I've waited longer for you than I've ever waited for any woman."

"I'll marry him," she thought coolly. "And then I'll never have to bother about money again."

Oh,  blessed  thought,  sweeter  than  hope  of Heaven, never to worry about money again, to know that Tara was safe, that the family was fed and
clothed, that she would never again have to bruise herself against stone walls!

She  felt  very  old. The afternoon's events had drained her of all feeling, first the startling news about the taxes, then Ashley and, last, her
murderous rage at Jonas Wilkerson. No, there was no emotion left in her. If all her capacity to feel had not been utterly exhausted, something in
her  would  have  protested  against the plan taking form in her mind, for she hated Rhett as she hated no other person in all the world. But she
could not feel. She could only think and her thoughts were very practical.

"I  said  some  terrible  things  to him that night when he deserted us on the road, but I can make him forget them," she thought contemptuously,
still  sure  of her power to charm. "Butter won't melt in my mouth when I'm around him. I'll make him think I always loved him and was just upset
and  frightened  that  night. Oh, men are so conceited they'll believe anything that flatters them. . . . I must never let him dream what straits
we're  in, not till I've got him. Oh, he mustn't know! If he even suspected how poor we are, he'd know it was his money I wanted and not himself.
After  all, there's no way he could know, for even Aunt Pitty doesn't know the worst. And after I've married him, he'll have to help us. He can't
let his wife's people starve."

His  wife. Mrs. Rhett Butler. Something of repulsion, buried deep beneath her cold thinking, stirred faintly and then was stilled. She remembered
the  embarrassing and disgusting events of her brief honeymoon with Charles, his fumbling hands, his awkwardness, his incomprehensible emotions--
and Wade Hampton.

"I won't think about it now. I'll bother about it after I've married him. . . ."

After she had married him. Memory rang a bell. A chill went down her spine. She remembered again that night on Aunt Pitty's porch, remembered how
she asked him if he was proposing to her, remembered how hatefully he had laughed and said: "My dear, I'm not a marrying man."

Suppose  he  was  still  not  a marrying man. Suppose despite all her charms and wiles, he refused to marry her. Suppose--oh, terrible thought!--
suppose he had completely forgotten about her and was chasing after some other woman.

"I want you more than I have ever wanted any woman. . . ."

Scarlett's nails dug into her palms as she clenched her fists. "If he's forgotten me, I'll make him remember me. I'll make him want me again."

And, if he would not marry her but still wanted her, there was a way to get the money. After all, he had once asked her to be his mistress.

In  the  dim  grayness  of  the  parlor she fought a quick decisive battle with the three most binding ties of her soul--the memory of Ellen, the
teachings of her religion and her love for Ashley. She knew that what she had in her mind must be hideous to her mother even in that warm far-off
Heaven  where  she  surely  was.  She  knew  that  fornication was a mortal sin. And she knew that, loving Ashley as she did, her plan was doubly
prostitution.

But  all  these  things went down before the merciless coldness of her mind and the goad of desperation. Ellen was dead and perhaps death gave an
understanding  of  all  things.  Religion  forbade  fornication  on  pain of hell fire but if the Church thought she was going to leave one stone
unturned in saving Tara and saving the family from starving--well, let the Church bother about that. She wouldn't. At least, not now. And Ashley-
-Ashley  didn't  want  her.  Yes, he did want her. The memory of his warm mouth on hers told her that. But he would never take her away with him.
Strange that going away with Ashley did not seem like a sin, but with Rhett--

In  the  dull  twilight of the winter afternoon she came to the end of the long road which had begun the night Atlanta fell. She had set her feet
upon that road a spoiled, selfish and untried girl, full of youth, warm of emotion, easily bewildered by life. Now, at the end of the road, there
was  nothing  left  of that girl. Hunger and hard labor, fear and constant strain, the terrors of war and the terrors of Reconstruction had taken
away  all  warmth  and youth and softness. About the core of her being, a shell of hardness had formed and, little by little, layer by layer, the
shell had thickened during the endless months.

But until this very day, two hopes had been left to sustain her. She had hoped that the war being over, life would gradually resume its old face.
She  had  hoped that Ashley's return would bring back some meaning into life. Now both hopes were gone. The sight of Jonas Wilkerson in the front
walk  of  Tara  had  made  her  realize  that  for  her,  for  the  whole South, the war would never end. The bitterest fighting, the most brutal
retaliations, were just beginning. And Ashley was imprisoned forever by words which were stronger than any jail.

Peace  had  failed her and Ashley had failed her, both in the same day, and it was as if the last crevice in the shell had been sealed, the final
layer  hardened.  She had become what Grandma Fontaine had counseled against, a woman who had seen the worst and so had nothing else to fear. Not
life nor Mother nor loss of love nor public opinion. Only hunger and her nightmare dream of hunger could make her afraid.

A curious sense of lightness, of freedom, pervaded her now that she had finally hardened her heart against all that bound her to the old days and
the old Scarlett. She had made her decision and, thank God, she wasn't afraid. She had nothing to lose and her mind was made up.

If  she  could  only coax Rhett into marrying her, all would be perfect. But if she couldn't--well she'd get the money just the same. For a brief
moment  she  wondered with impersonal curiosity what would be expected of a mistress. Would Rhett insist on keeping her in Atlanta as people said
he  kept  the  Watling  woman?  If  he made her stay in Atlanta, he'd have to pay well--pay enough to balance what her absence from Tara would be
worth.  Scarlett  was  very ignorant of the hidden side of men's lives and had no way of knowing just what the arrangement might involve. And she
wondered if she would have a baby. That would be distinctly terrible.

"I  won't  think  of that now. I'll think of it later," and she pushed the unwelcome idea into the back of her mind lest it shake her resolution.
She'd  tell  the family tonight she was going to Atlanta to borrow money, to try to mortgage the farm if necessary. That would be all they needed
to know until such an evil day when they might find out differently.

With  the  thought of action, her head went up and her shoulders went back. This affair was not going to be easy, she knew. Formerly, it had been
Rhett who asked for her favors and she who held the power. Now she was the beggar and a beggar in no position to dictate terms.

"But I won't go to him like a beggar. I'll go like a queen granting favors. He'll never know."

She  walked  to the long pier glass and looked at herself, her head held high. And she saw framed in the cracking gilt molding a stranger. It was
as if she were really seeing herself for the first time in a year. She had glanced in the mirror every morning to see that her face was clean and
her hair tidy but she had always been too pressed by other things to really see herself. But this stranger! Surely this thin hollow-cheeked woman
couldn't  be  Scarlett  O'Hara! Scarlett O'Hara had a pretty, coquettish, high-spirited face. This face at which she stared was not pretty at all
and  had none of the charm she remembered so well. It was white and strained and the black brows above slanting green eyes swooped up startlingly
against the white skin like frightened bird's wings. There was a hard and hunted look about this face.

"I'm not pretty enough to get him!" she thought and desperation came back to her. "I'm thin--oh, I'm terribly thin!"

She  patted her cheeks, felt frantically at her collar bones, feeling them stand out through her basque. And her breasts were so small, almost as
small  as  Melanie's.  She'd  have to put ruffles in her bosom to make them look larger and she had always had contempt for girls who resorted to
such  subterfuges.  Ruffles!  That brought up another thought. Her clothes. She looked down at her dress, spreading its mended folds wide between
her  hands.  Rhett liked women who were well dressed, fashionably dressed. She remembered with longing the flounced green dress she had worn when
she  first came out of mourning, the dress she wore with the green plumed bonnet he had brought her and she recalled the approving compliments he
had  paid  her.  She  remembered,  too, with hate sharpened by envy the red plaid dress, the red-topped boots with tassels and the pancake hat of
Emmie  Slattery.  They  were gaudy but they were new and fashionable and certainly they caught the eye. And, oh, how she wanted to catch the eye!
Especially the eye of Rhett Butler! If he should see her in her old clothes, he'd know everything was wrong at Tara. And he must not know.

What  a fool she had been to think she could go to Atlanta and have him for the asking, she with her scrawny neck and hungry cat eyes and raggedy
dress!  If  she hadn't been able to pry a proposal from him at the height of her beauty, when she had her prettiest clothes, how could she expect
to get one now when she was ugly and dressed tackily? If Miss Pitty's story was true, he must have more money than anyone in Atlanta and probably
had his pick of all the pretty ladies, good and bad. Well, she thought grimly, I've got something that most pretty ladies haven't got--and that's
a mind that's made up. And if I had just one nice dress--

There wasn't a nice dress in Tara or a dress which hadn't been turned twice and mended.

"That's that," she thought, disconsolately looking down at the floor. She saw Ellen's moss-green velvet carpet, now worn and scuffed and torn and
spotted  from the numberless men who had slept upon it, and the sight depressed her more, for it made her realize that Tara was just as ragged as
she.  The  whole darkening room depressed her and, going to the window, she raised the sash, unlatched the shutters and let the last light of the
wintry sunset into the room. She closed the window and leaned her head against the velvet curtains and looked out across the bleak pasture toward
the dark cedars of the burying ground.

The  moss-green  velvet  curtains  felt  prickly and soft beneath her cheek and she rubbed her face against them gratefully, like a cat. And then
suddenly she looked at them.

A  minute  later,  she  was  dragging a heavy marble-topped table across the floor. Its rusty castors screeching in protest. She rolled the table
under  the  window,  gathered  up  her  skirts, climbed on it and tiptoed to reach the heavy curtain pole. It was almost out of her reach and she
jerked at it so impatiently the nails came out of the wood, and the curtains, pole and all, fell to the floor with a clatter.

As  if by magic, the door of the parlor opened and the wide black face of Mammy appeared, ardent curiosity and deepest suspicion evident in every
wrinkle. She looked disapprovingly at Scarlett, poised on the table top, her skirts above her knees, ready to leap to the floor. There was a look
of excitement and triumph on her face which brought sudden distrust to Mammy.

"Whut you up to wid Miss Ellen's po'teers?" she demanded.

"What are you up to listening outside doors?" asked Scarlett, leaping nimbly to the floor and gathering up a length of the heavy dusty velvet.

"Dat  ain' needer hyah no dar," countered Mammy, girding herself for combat. "You ain' got no bizness wid Miss Ellen's po'teers, juckin' de poles
plum  outer  de wood, an' drappin' dem on de flo' in de dust. Miss Ellen set gret sto' by dem po'teers an' Ah ain' 'tendin' ter have you muss dem
up dat way."

Scarlett turned green eyes on Mammy, eyes which were feverishly gay, eyes which looked like the bad little girl of the good old days Mammy sighed
about.

"Scoot up to the attic and get my box of dress patterns, Mammy," she cried, giving her a slight shove. "I'm going to have a new dress."

Mammy  was  torn  between  indignation at the very idea of her two hundred pounds scooting anywhere, much less to the attic, and the dawning of a
horrid  suspicion.  Quickly  she snatched the curtain lengths from Scarlett, holding them against her monumental, sagging breasts as if they were
holy relics.

"Not outer Miss Ellen's po'teers is you gwine have a new dress, ef dat's whut you figgerin' on. Not w'ile Ah got breaf in mah body."

For a moment the expression Mammy was wont to describe to herself as "bullheaded" flitted over her young mistress' face and then it passed into a
smile,  so difficult for Mammy to resist. But it did not fool the old woman. She knew Miss Scarlett was employing that smile merely to get around
her and in this matter she was determined not to be gotten around.

"Mammy, don't be mean. I'm going to Atlanta to borrow some money and I've got to have a new dress."

"You  doan  need no new dress. Ain' no other ladies got new dresses. Dey weahs dey ole ones an' dey weahs dem proudfully. Ain' no reason why Miss
Ellen's chile kain weah rags ef she wants ter, an' eve'ybody respec' her lak she wo' silk."

The  bullheaded  expression  began to creep back. Lordy, 'twus right funny how de older Miss Scarlett git de mo' she look lak Mist' Gerald and de
less lak Miss Ellen!

"Now,  Mammy you know Aunt Pitty wrote us that Miss Fanny Elsing is getting married this Saturday, and of course I'll go to the wedding. And I'll
need a new dress to wear."

"De dress you got on'll be jes' as nice as Miss Fanny's weddin' dress. Miss Pitty done wrote dat de Elsings mighty po'."

"But I've got to have a new dress! Mammy, you don't know how we need money. The taxes--"

"Yas'm, Ah knows all 'bout de taxes but--"

"You do?"

"Well'm, Gawd give me ears, din' he, an' ter hear wid? Specially w'en Mist' Will doan never tek trouble ter close de do'."

Was  there  nothing  Mammy did not overhear? Scarlett wondered how that ponderous body which shook the floors could move with such savage stealth
when its owner wished to eavesdrop.

"Well, if you heard all that, I suppose you heard Jonas Wilkerson and that Emmie--"

"Yas'm," said Mammy with smoldering eyes.

"Well,  don't  be  a mule, Mammy. Don't you see I've got to go to Atlanta and get money for the taxes? I've got to get some money. I've got to do
it!"  She  hammered  one  small  fist into the other. "Name of God, Mammy, they'll turn us all out into the road and then where'll we go? Are you
going  to  argue  with me about a little matter of Mother's curtains when that trash Emmie Slattery who killed Mother is fixing to move into this
house and sleep in the bed Mother slept in?"

Mammy shifted from one foot to another like a restive elephant. She had a dim feeling that she was being got around.

"No'm,  Ah  ain' wantin' ter see trash in Miss Ellen's house or us all in de road but--" She fixed Scarlett with a suddenly accusing eye: "Who is
you fixin' ter git money frum dat you needs a new dress?"

"That," said Scarlett, taken aback, "is my own business."

Mammy  looked  at  her  piercingly,  just  as she had done when Scarlett was small and had tried unsuccessfully to palm off plausible excuses for
misdeeds.  She  seemed  to  be  reading  her  mind  and Scarlett dropped her eyes unwillingly, the first feeling of guilt at her intended conduct
creeping over her.

"So you needs a spang new pretty dress ter borry money wid. Dat doan lissen jes' right ter me. An' you ain' sayin' whar de money ter come frum."

"I'm not saying anything," said Scarlett indignantly. "It's my own business. Are you going to give me that curtain and help me make the dress?"

"Yas'm,"  said  Mammy softly, capitulating with a suddenness which aroused all the suspicion in Scarlett's mind. "Ah gwine he'p you mek it an' Ah
specs we mout git a petticoat outer de satin linin' of de po'teers an' trim a pa'r pantalets wid de lace cuttins."

She handed the velvet curtain back to Scarlett and a sly smile spread over her face.

"Miss Melly gwine ter 'Lanta wid you, Miss Scarlett?"

"No," said Scarlett sharply, beginning to realize what was coming. "I'm going by myself."

"Dat's whut you thinks," said Mammy firmly, "but Ah is gwine wid you an' dat new dress. Yas, Ma'm, eve'y step of de way."

For  an  instant  Scarlett  envisaged  her  trip  to  Atlanta and her conversation with Rhett with Mammy glowering chaperonage like a large black
Cerberus in the background. She smiled again and put a hand on Mammy's arm.

"Mammy darling, you're sweet to want to go with me and help me, but how on earth would the folks here get on without you? You know you just about
run Tara."

"Huh!"  said Mammy. "Doan do no good ter sweet talk me, Miss Scarlett. Ah been knowin' you sence Ah put de fust pa'r of diapers on you. Ah's said
Ah's gwine ter 'Lanta wid you an' gwine Ah is. Miss Ellen be tuhnin' in her grabe at you gwine up dar by yo'seff wid dat town full up wid Yankees
an' free niggers an' sech like."

"But I'll be at Aunt Pittypat's," Scarlett offered frantically.

"Miss  Pittypat  a  fine woman an' she think she see eve'ything but she doan," said Mammy, and turning with the majestic air of having closed the
interview, she went into the hall. The boards trembled as she called:

"Prissy,  child!  Fly up de stairs an' fotch Miss Scarlett's pattun box frum de attic an' try an' fine de scissors without takin' all night 'bout
it."

"This is a fine mess," thought Scarlett dejectedly. "I'd as soon have a bloodhound after me."

After  supper  had  been  cleared away, Scarlett and Mammy spread patterns on the dining-room table while Suellen and Carreen busily ripped satin
linings  from  curtains  and  Melanie  brushed  the  velvet with a clean hairbrush to remove the dust. Gerald, Will and Ashley sat about the room
smoking, smiling at the feminine tumult. A feeling of pleasurable excitement which seemed to emanate from Scarlett was on them all, an excitement
they  could  not  understand.  There was color in Scarlett's face and a bright hard glitter in her eyes and she laughed a good deal. Her laughter
pleased  them  all,  for it had been months since they had heard her really laugh. Especially did it please Gerald. His eyes were less vague than
usual  as they followed her swishing figure about the room and he patted her approvingly whenever she was within reach. The girls were as excited
as if preparing for a ball and they ripped and cut and basted as if making a ball dress of their own.

Scarlett  was  going  to  Atlanta  to borrow money or to mortgage Tara if necessary. But what was a mortgage, after all? Scarlett said they could
easily pay it off out of next year's cotton and have money left over, and she said it with such finality they did not think to question. And when
they  asked  who was going to lend the money she said: "Layovers catch meddlers," so archly they all laughed and teased her about her millionaire
friend.

"It  must  be  Captain Rhett Butler," said Melanie slyly and they exploded with mirth at this absurdity, knowing how Scarlett hated him and never
failed to refer to him as "that skunk, Rhett Butler."

But Scarlett did not laugh at this and Ashley, who had laughed, stopped abruptly as he saw Mammy shoot a quick, guarded glance at Scarlett.

Suellen,  moved  to  generosity  by the party spirit of the occasion, produced her Irish-lace collar, somewhat worn but still pretty, and Carreen
insisted that Scarlett wear her slippers to Atlanta, for they were in better condition than any others at Tara. Melanie begged Mammy to leave her
enough  velvet  scraps to recover the frame of her battered bonnet and brought shouts of laughter when she said the old rooster was going to part
with his gorgeous bronze and green-black tail feathers unless he took to the swamp immediately.

Scarlett, watching the flying fingers, heard the laughter and looked at them all with concealed bitterness and contempt.

"They  haven't  an  idea  what is really happening to me or to themselves or to the South. They still think, in spite of everything, that nothing
really  dreadful  can  happen  to  any  of  them because they are who they are, O'Haras, Wilkeses, Hamiltons. Even the darkies feel that way. Oh,
they're  all  fools!  They'll never realize! They'll go right on thinking and living as they always have, and nothing will change them. Melly can
dress  in  rags  and  pick cotton and even help me murder a man but it doesn't change her. She's still the shy well-bred Mrs. Wilkes, the perfect
lady!  And  Ashley can see death and war and be wounded and lie in jail and come home to less than nothing and still be the same gentleman he was
when  he  had all Twelve Oaks behind him. Will is different. He knows how things really are but then Will never had anything much to lose. And as
for  Suellen  and  Carreen--they think all this is just a temporary matter. They don't change to meet changed conditions because they think it'll
all  be  over  soon.  They  think  God is going to work a miracle especially for their benefit. But He won't. The only miracle that's going to be
worked  around  here  is  the  one  I'm  going  to work on Rhett Butler. . . . They won't change. Maybe they can't change. I'm the only one who's
changed--and I wouldn't have changed if I could have helped it."

Mammy  finally  turned  the  men  out  of the dining room and closed the door, so the fitting could begin. Pork helped Gerald upstairs to bed and
Ashley  and  Will  were  left  alone  in  the lamplight in the front hall. They were silent for a while and Will chewed his tobacco like a placid
ruminant animal. But his mild face was far from placid.

"This goin' to Atlanta," he said at last in a slow voice, "I don't like it. Not one bit."

Ashley looked at Will quickly and then looked away, saying nothing but wondering if Will had the same awful suspicion which was haunting him. But
that  was  impossible.  Will  didn't  know what had taken place in the orchard that afternoon and how it had driven Scarlett to desperation. Will
couldn't  have  noticed  Mammy's  face  when  Rhett  Butler's  name  was mentioned and, besides, Will didn't know about Rhett's money or his foul
reputation.  At  least,  Ashley  did  not  think he could know these things, but since coming back to Tara he had realized that Will, like Mammy,
seemed to know things without being told, to sense them before they happened. There was something ominous in the air, exactly what Ashley did not
know,  but  he  was  powerless to save Scarlett from it. She had not met his eyes once that evening and the hard bright gaiety with which she had
treated  him was frightening. The suspicions which tore at him were too terrible to be put into words. He did not have the right to insult her by
asking  her  if they were true. He clenched his fists. He had no rights at all where she was concerned; this afternoon he had forfeited them all,
forever.  He  could not help her. No one could help her. But when he thought of Mammy and the look of grim determination she wore as she cut into
the velvet curtains, he was cheered a little. Mammy would take care of Scarlett whether Scarlett wished it or not.

"I have caused all this," he thought despairingly. "I have driven her to this."

He  remembered  the way she had squared her shoulders when she turned away from him that afternoon, remembered the stubborn lift of her head. His
heart  went  out  to  her, torn with his own helplessness, wrenched with admiration. He knew she had no such word in her vocabulary as gallantry,
knew  she would have stared blankly if he had told her she was the most gallant soul he had ever known. He knew she would not understand how many
truly  fine things he ascribed to her when he thought of her as gallant. He knew that she took life as it came, opposed her tough-fibered mind to
whatever  obstacles there might be, fought on with a determination that would not recognize defeat, and kept on fighting even when she saw defeat
was inevitable.

But, for four years, he had seen others who had refused to recognize defeat, men who rode gaily into sure disaster because they were gallant. And
they had been defeated, just the same.

He  thought  as  he  stared at Will in the shadowy hall that he had never known such gallantry as the gallantry of Scarlett O'Hara going forth to
conquer the world in her mother's velvet curtains and the tail feathers of a rooster.



CHAPTER XXXIII


A  cold  wind  was blowing stiffly and the scudding clouds overhead were the deep gray of slate when Scarlett and Mammy stepped from the train in
Atlanta the next afternoon. The depot had not been rebuilt since the burning of the city and they alighted amid cinders and mud a few yards above
the  blackened ruins which marked the site. Habit strong upon her, Scarlett looked about for Uncle Peter and Pitty's carriage, for she had always
been  met  by  them  when returning from Tara to Atlanta during the war years. Then she caught herself with a sniff at her own absent-mindedness.
Naturally,  Peter  wasn't  there  for  she had given Aunt Pitty no warning of her coming and, moreover, she remembered that one of the old lady's
letters had dealt tearfully with the death of the old nag Peter had "'quired" in Macon to bring her back to Atlanta after the surrender.

She  looked  about  the rutted and cut-up space around the depot for the equipage of some old friend or acquaintance who might drive them to Aunt
Pitty's house but she recognized no one, black or white. Probably none of her old friends owned carriages now, if what Pitty had written them was
true.  Times  were  so hard it was difficult to feed and lodge humans, much less animals. Most of Pitty's friends, like herself, were afoot these
days.

There  were  a  few  wagons  loading  at the freight cars and several mud-splashed buggies with rough-looking strangers at the reins but only two
carriages.  One  was  a  closed  carriage,  the other open and occupied by a well-dressed woman and a Yankee officer. Scarlett drew in her breath
sharply  at the sight of the uniform. Although Pitty had written that Atlanta was garrisoned and the streets full of soldiers, the first sight of
the  bluecoat  startled  and  frightened  her.  It was hard to remember that the war was over and that this man would not pursue her, rob her and
insult her.

The  comparative  emptiness around the train took her mind back to that morning in 1862 when she had come to Atlanta as a young widow, swathed in
crepe  and  wild  with  boredom. She recalled how crowded this space had been with wagons and carriages and ambulances and how noisy with drivers
swearing and yelling and people calling greetings to friends. She sighed for the light-hearted excitement of the war days and sighed again at the
thought  of  walking  all  the  way to Aunt Pitty's house. But she was hopeful that once on Peachtree Street, she might meet someone she knew who
would give them a ride.

As  she  stood looking about her a saddle-colored negro of middle age drove the closed carriage toward her and, leaning from the box, questioned:
"Cah'ige, lady? Two bits fer any whar in 'Lanta."

Mammy threw him an annihilating glance.

"A hired hack!" she rumbled. "Nigger, does you know who we is?"

Mammy  was  a  country  negro  but  she  had  not always been a country negro and she knew that no chaste woman ever rode in a hired conveyance--
especially  a  closed  carriage--without  the  escort  of some male member of her family. Even the presence of a negro maid would not satisfy the
conventions. She gave Scarlett a glare as she saw her look longingly at the hack.

"Come 'way frum dar, Miss Scarlett! A hired hack an' a free issue nigger! Well, dat's a good combination."

"Ah  ain'  no free issue nigger," declared the driver with heat. "Ah b'longs ter Ole Miss Talbot an' disyere her cah'ige an' Ah drives it ter mek
money fer us."

"Whut Miss Talbot is dat?"

"Miss Suzannah Talbot of Milledgeville. Us done move up hyah affer Old Marse wuz kilt."

"Does you know her, Miss Scarlett?"

"No," said Scarlett, regretfully. "I know so few Milledgeville folks."

"Den us'll walk," said Mammy sternly. "Drive on, nigger."

She  picked  up  the carpetbag which held Scarlett's new velvet frock and bonnet and nightgown and tucked the neat bandanna bundle that contained
her  own  belongings  under  her  arm  and  shepherded Scarlett across the wet expanse of cinders. Scarlett did not argue the matter, much as she
preferred  to ride, for she wished no disagreement with Mammy. Ever since yesterday afternoon when Mammy had caught her with the velvet curtains,
there  had been an alert suspicious look in her eyes which Scarlett did not like. It was going to be difficult to escape from her chaperonage and
she did not intend to rouse Mammy's fighting blood before it was absolutely necessary.

As  they  walked  along the narrow sidewalk toward Peachtree, Scarlett was dismayed and sorrowful, for Atlanta looked so devastated and different
from  what  she remembered. They passed beside what had been the Atlanta Hotel where Rhett and Uncle Henry had lived and of that elegant hostelry
there  remained  only a shell, a part of the blackened walls. The warehouses which had bordered the train tracks for a quarter of a mile and held
tons  of military supplies had not been rebuilt and their rectangular foundations looked dreary under the dark sky. Without the wall of buildings
on  either  side  and with the car shed gone, the railroad tracks seemed bare and exposed. Somewhere amid these ruins, undistinguishable from the
others,  lay what remained of her own warehouse on the property Charles had left her. Uncle Henry had paid last year's taxes on it for her. She'd
have to repay that money some time. That was something else to worry about.

As they turned the corner into Peachtree Street and she looked toward Five Points, she cried out with shock. Despite all Frank had told her about
the  town burning to the ground, she had never really visualized complete destruction. In her mind the town she loved so well still stood full of
close-packed buildings and fine houses. But this Peachtree Street she was looking upon was so denuded of landmarks it was as unfamiliar as if she
had  never seen it before. This muddy street down which she had driven a thousand times during the war, along which she had fled with ducked head
and  fear-quickened  legs when shells burst over her during the siege, this street she had last seen in the heat and hurry and anguish of the day
of the retreat, was so strange looking she felt like crying.

Though many new buildings had sprung up in the year since Sherman marched out of the burning town and the Confederates returned, there were still
wide vacant lots around Five Points where heaps of smudged broken bricks lay amid a jumble of rubbish, dead weeds and broom-sedge. There were the
remains  of  a  few  buildings  she  remembered,  roofless  brick walls through which the dull daylight shone, glassless windows gaping, chimneys
towering  lonesomely.  Here and there her eyes gladly picked out a familiar store which had partly survived shell and fire and had been repaired,
the fresh red of new brick glaring bright against the smut of the old walls. On new store fronts and new office windows she saw the welcome names
of  men she knew but more often the names were unfamiliar, especially the dozens of shingles of strange doctors and lawyers and cotton merchants.
Once  she had known practically everyone in Atlanta and the sight of so many strange names depressed her. But she was cheered by the sight of new
buildings going up all along the street.

There  were  dozens  of  them and several were three stories high! Everywhere building was going on, for as she looked down the street, trying to
adjust her mind to the new Atlanta, she heard the blithe sound of hammers and saws, noticed scaffoldings rising and saw men climbing ladders with
hods of bricks on their shoulders. She looked down the street she loved so well and her eyes misted a little.

"They burned you," she thought, "and they laid you flat. But they didn't lick you. They couldn't lick you. You'll grow back just as big and sassy
as you used to be!"

As  she walked along Peachtree, followed by the waddling Mammy, she found the sidewalks just as crowded as they were at the height of the war and
there was the same air of rush and bustle about the resurrecting town which had made her blood sing when she came here, so long ago, on her first
visit  to  Aunt  Pitty.  There  seemed  to  be just as many vehicles wallowing in the mud holes as there had been then, except that there were no
Confederate  ambulances,  and  just  as many horses and mules tethered to hitching racks in front of the wooden awnings of the stores. Though the
sidewalks were jammed, the faces she saw were as unfamiliar as the signs overhead, new people, many rough-looking men and tawdrily dressed women.
The  streets were black with loafing negroes who leaned against walls or sat on the curbing watching vehicles go past with the naive curiosity of
children at a circus parade.

"Free issue country niggers," snorted Mammy. "Ain' never seed a proper cah'ige in dere lives. An' impident lookin', too."

They  were  impudent  looking,  Scarlett agreed, for they stared at her in an insolent manner, but she forgot them in the renewed shock of seeing
blue uniforms. The town was full of Yankee soldiers, on horses, afoot, in army wagons, loafing on the street, reeling out of barrooms.

I'll never get used to them, she thought, clenching her fists. Never! and over her shoulder: "Hurry, Mammy, let's get out of this crowd."

"Soon's Ah kick dis black trash outer mah way," answered Mammy loudly, swinging the carpetbag at a black buck who loitered tantalizingly in front
of her and making him leap aside. "Ah doan lak disyere town, Miss Scarlett. It's too full of Yankees an' cheap free issue."

"It's nicer where it isn't so crowded. When we get across Five Points, it won't be so bad."

They  picked  their way across the slippery stepping stones that bridged the mud of Decatur Street and continued up Peachtree, through a thinning
crowd.  When they reached Wesley Chapel where Scarlett had paused to catch her breath that day in 1864 when she had run for Dr. Meade, she looked
at  it  and laughed aloud, shortly and grimly. Mammy's quick old eyes sought hers with suspicion and question but her curiosity went unsatisfied.
Scarlett  was  recalling  with contempt the terror which had ridden her that day. She had been crawling with fear, rotten with fear, terrified by
the  Yankees,  terrified  by  the approaching birth of Beau. Now she wondered how she could have been so frightened, frightened like a child at a
loud  noise.  And  what  a  child  she  had  been  to think that Yankees and fire and defeat were the worst things that could happen to her! What
trivialities  they  were  beside  Ellen's death and Gerald's vagueness, beside hunger and cold and back-breaking work and the living nightmare of
insecurity.  How  easy  she  would find it now to be brave before an invading army, but how hard to face the danger that threatened Tara! No, she
would never again be afraid of anything except poverty.

Up  Peachtree  came  a  closed  carriage  and Scarlett went to the curb eagerly to see if she knew the occupant, for Aunt Pitty's house was still
several  blocks  away.  She  and  Mammy leaned forward as the carriage came abreast and Scarlett, with a smile arranged, almost called out when a
woman's  head  appeared for a moment at the window--a too bright red head beneath a fine fur hat. Scarlett took a step back as mutual recognition
leaped  into both faces. It was Belle Watling and Scarlett had a glimpse of nostrils distended with dislike before she disappeared again. Strange
that Belle's should be the first familiar face she saw.

"Who  dat?"  questioned  Mammy  suspiciously.  "She  knowed  you  but she din' bow. Ah ain' never seed ha'r dat color in mah life. Not even in de
Tarleton fambly. It look--well, it look dyed ter me!"

"It is," said Scarlett shortly, walking faster.

"Does you know a dyed-ha'rd woman? Ah ast you who she is."

"She's the town bad woman," said Scarlett briefly, "and I give you my word I don't know her, so shut up."

"Gawdlmighty!"  breathed  Mammy, her jaw dropping as she looked after the carriage with passionate curiosity. She had not seen a professional bad
woman since she left Savannah with Ellen more than twenty years before and she wished ardently that she had observed Belle more closely.

"She  sho  dressed  up  fine  an'  got a fine cah'ige an' coachman," she muttered. "Ah doan know whut de Lawd thinkin' 'bout lettin' de bad women
flurrish lak dat w'en us good folks is hongry an' mos' barefoot."

"The  Lord  stopped  thinking about us years ago," said Scarlett savagely. "And don't go telling me Mother is turning in her grave to hear me say
it, either."

She  wanted  to feel superior and virtuous about Belle but she could not. If her plans went well, she might be on the same footing with Belle and
supported  by  the  same  man. While she did not regret her decision one whit, the matter in its true light discomfited her. "I won't think of it
now," she told herself and hurried her steps.

They  passed  the  lot  where  the  Meade  house  had stood and there remained of it only a forlorn pair of stone steps and a walk, leading up to
nothing.  Where  the  Whitings'  home  had been was bare ground. Even the foundation stones and the brick chimneys were gone and there were wagon
tracks  where  they  had  been carted away. The brick house of the Elsings still stood, with a new roof and a new second floor. The Bonnell home,
awkwardly  patched and roofed with rude boards instead of shingles, managed to look livable for all its battered appearance. But in neither house
was there a face at the window or a figure on the porch, and Scarlett was glad. She did not want to talk to anyone now.

Then  the  new slate roof of Aunt Pitty's house came in view with its red-brick walls, and Scarlett's heart throbbed. How good of the Lord not to
level  it  beyond  repair!  Coming out of the front yard was Uncle Peter, a market basket on his arm, and when he saw Scarlett and Mammy trudging
along, a wide, incredulous smile split his black face.

I  could  kiss the old black fool, I'm so glad to see him, thought Scarlett, joyfully and she called: "Run get Auntie's swoon bottle, Peter! It's
really me!"



That night the inevitable hominy and dried peas were on Aunt Pitty's supper table and, as Scarlett ate them, she made a vow that these two dishes
would  never appear on her table when she had money again. And, no matter what price she had to pay, she was going to have money again, more than
just enough to pay the taxes on Tara. Somehow, some day she was going to have plenty of money if she had to commit murder to get it.

In  the  yellow  lamplight of the dining room, she asked Pitty about her finances, hoping against hope that Charles' family might be able to lend
her the money she needed. The questions were none too subtle but Pitty, in her pleasure at having a member of the family to talk to, did not even
notice  the bald way the questions were put. She plunged with tears into the details of her misfortunes. She just didn't know where her farms and
town  property and money had gone but everything had slipped away. At least, that was what Brother Henry told her. He hadn't been able to pay the
taxes  on  her  estate. Everything except the house she was living in was gone and Pitty did not stop to think that the house had never been hers
but was the joint property of Melanie and Scarlett. Brother Henry could just barely pay taxes on this house. He gave her a little something every
month to live on and, though it was very humiliating to take money from him, she had to do it.

"Brother  Henry  says  he  doesn't  know how he'll make ends meet with the load he's carrying and the taxes so high but, of course, he's probably
lying and has loads of money and just won't give me much."

Scarlett knew Uncle Henry wasn't lying. The few letters she had had from him in connection with Charles' property showed that. The old lawyer was
battling  valiantly  to  save  the  house  and  the  one piece of downtown property where the warehouse had been, so Wade and Scarlett would have
something left from the wreckage. Scarlett knew he was carrying these taxes for her at a great sacrifice.

"Of  course, he hasn't any money," thought Scarlett grimly. "Well, check him and Aunt Pitty off my list. There's nobody left but Rhett. I'll have
to  do it. I must do it. But I mustn't think about it now. . . . I must get her to talking about Rhett so I can casually suggest to her to invite
him to call tomorrow."

She smiled and squeezed the plump palms of Aunt Pitty between her own.

"Darling  Auntie,"  she  said,  "don't  let's  talk  about distressing things like money any more. Let's forget about them and talk of pleasanter
things.  You  must  tell  me all the news about our old friends. How is Mrs. Merriwether and Maybelle? I heard that Maybelle's little Creole came
home safely. How are the Elsings and Dr. and Mrs. Meade?"

Pittypat  brightened at the change of subject and her baby face stopped quivering with tears. She gave detailed reports about old neighbors, what
they  were  doing  and  wearing  and  eating  and  thinking. She told with accents of horror how, before Rene Picard came home from the war, Mrs.
Merriwether  and Maybelle had made ends meet by baking pies and selling them to the Yankee soldiers. Imagine that! Sometimes there were two dozen
Yankees  standing  in the back yard of the Merriwether home, waiting for the baking to be finished. Now that Rene was home, he drove an old wagon
to  the Yankee camp every day and sold cakes and pies and beaten biscuits to the soldiers. Mrs. Merriwether said that when she made a little more
money  she  was  going to open a bake shop downtown. Pitty did not wish to criticize but after all-- As for herself, said Pitty, she would rather
starve than have such commerce with Yankees. She made a point of giving a disdainful look to every soldier she met, and crossed to the other side
of  the  street  in  as  insulting  a manner as possible, though, she said, this was quite inconvenient in wet weather. Scarlett gathered that no
sacrifice, even though it be muddy shoes, was too great to show loyalty to the Confederacy in so far as Miss Pittypat was concerned.

Mrs.  Meade  and the doctor had lost their home when the Yankees fired the town and they had neither the money nor the heart to rebuild, now that
Phil  and Darcy were dead. Mrs. Meade said she never wanted a home again, for what was a home without children and grandchildren in it? They were
very lonely and had gone to live with the Elsings who had rebuilt the damaged part of their home. Mr. and Mrs. Whiting had a room there, too, and
Mrs. Bonnell was talking of moving in, if she was fortunate enough to rent her house to a Yankee officer and his family.

"But how do they all squeeze in?" cried Scarlett. "There's Mrs. Elsing and Fanny and Hugh--"

"Mrs.  Elsing  and  Fanny sleep in the parlor and Hugh in the attic," explained Pitty, who knew the domestic arrangements of all her friends. "My
dear,  I  do  hate  to  tell  you this but--Mrs. Elsing calls them 'paying guests' but," Pitty dropped her voice, "they are really nothing at all
except boarders. Mrs. Elsing is running a boarding house! Isn't that dreadful?"

"I  think it's wonderful," said Scarlett shortly. "I only wish we'd had 'paying guests' at Tara for the last year instead of free boarders. Maybe
we wouldn't be so poor now."

"Scarlett,  how  can you say such things? Your poor mother must be turning in her grave at the very thought of charging money for the hospitality
of  Tara!  Of  course,  Mrs. Elsing was simply forced to it because, while she took in fine sewing and Fanny painted china and Hugh made a little
money  peddling  firewood,  they couldn't make ends meet. Imagine darling Hugh forced to peddle wood! And he all set to be a fine lawyer! I could
just cry at the things our boys are reduced to!"

Scarlett  thought  of the rows of cotton beneath the glaring coppery sky at Tara and how her back had ached as she bent over them. She remembered
the  feel  of plow handles between her inexperienced, blistered palms and she felt that Hugh Elsing was deserving of no special sympathy. What an
innocent old fool Pitty was and, despite the ruin all around her, how sheltered!

"If he doesn't like peddling, why doesn't he practice law? Or isn't there any law practice left in Atlanta?"

"Oh dear, yes! There's plenty of law practice. Practically everybody is suing everybody else these days. With everything burned down and boundary
lines  wiped  out,  no  one knows just where their land begins or ends. But you can't get any pay for suing because nobody has any money. So Hugh
sticks  to  his  peddling.  .  .  . Oh, I almost forgot! Did I write you? Fanny Elsing is getting married tomorrow night and, of course, you must
attend. Mrs. Elsing will be only too pleased to have you when she knows you're in town. I do hope you have some other frock besides that one. Not
that  it isn't a very sweet frock, darling, but--well, it does look a bit worn. Oh, you have a pretty frock? I'm so glad because it's going to be
the  first real wedding we've had in Atlanta since before the town fell. Cake and wine and dancing afterward, though I don't know how the Elsings
can afford it, they are so poor."

"Who is Fanny marrying? I thought after Dallas McLure was killed at Gettysburg--"

"Darling, you mustn't criticize Fanny. Everybody isn't as loyal to the dead as you are to poor Charlie. Let me see. What is his name? I can never
remember  names--Tom  somebody.  I knew his mother well, we went to LaGrange Female Institute together. She was a Tomlinson from LaGrange and her
mother was--let me see. . . . Perkins? Parkins? Parkinson! That's it. From Sparta. A very good family but just the same--well, I know I shouldn't
say it but I don't see how Fanny can bring herself to marry him!"

"Does he drink or--"

"Dear,  no!  His  character  is perfect but, you see, he was wounded low down, by a bursting shell and it did something to his legs--makes them--
makes  them,  well,  I hate to use the word but it makes him spraddle. It gives him a very vulgar appearance when he walks--well, it doesn't look
very pretty. I don't see why she's marrying him."

"Girls have to marry someone."

"Indeed, they do not," said Pitty, ruffling. "I never had to."

"Now,  darling,  I  didn't  mean you! Everybody knows how popular you were and still are! Why, old Judge Canton used to throw sheep's eyes at you
till I--"

"Oh, Scarlett, hush! That old fool!" giggled Pitty, good humor restored. "But, after all, Fanny was so popular she could have made a better match
and  I  don't believe she loves this Tom what's-his-name. I don't believe she's ever gotten over Dallas McLure getting killed, but she's not like
you,  darling.  You've remained so faithful to dear Charlie, though you could have married dozens of times. Melly and I have often said how loyal
you were to his memory when everyone else said you were just a heartless coquette."

Scarlett  passed  over  this  tactless  confidence  and  skillfully  led Pitty from one friend to another but all the while she was in a fever of
impatience to bring the conversation around to Rhett. It would never do for her to ask outright about him, so soon after arriving. It might start
the  old  lady's  mind  to  working  on  channels better left untouched. There would be time enough for Pitty's suspicions to be aroused if Rhett
refused to marry her.

Aunt  Pitty  prattled  on happily, pleased as a child at having an audience. Things in Atlanta were in a dreadful pass, she said, due to the vile
doings  of  the  Republicans.  There  was  no end to their goings on and the worst thing was the way they were putting ideas in the poor darkies'
heads.

"My  dear,  they  want  to let the darkies vote! Did you ever hear of anything more silly? Though--I don't know--now that I think about it, Uncle
Peter  has  much  more  sense  than any Republican I ever saw and much better manners but, of course, Uncle Peter is far too well bred to want to
vote.  But the very notion has upset the darkies till they're right addled. And some of them are so insolent. Your life isn't safe on the streets
after dark and even in the broad daylight they push ladies off the sidewalks into the mud. And if any gentleman dares to protest, they arrest him
and-- My dear, did I tell you that Captain Butler was in jail?"

"Rhett Butler?"

Even  with  this  startling  news,  Scarlett  was grateful that Aunt Pitty had saved her the necessity of bringing his name into the conversation
herself.

"Yes,  indeed!"  Excitement colored Pitty's cheeks pink and she sat upright. "He's in jail this very minute for killing a negro and they may hang
him! Imagine Captain Butler hanging!"

For  a  moment,  the  breath  went  out of Scarlett's lungs in a sickening gasp and she could only stare at the fat old lady who was so obviously
pleased at the effect of her statement.

"They  haven't proved it yet but somebody killed this darky who had insulted a white woman. And the Yankees are very upset because so many uppity
darkies  have  been  killed  recently.  They can't prove it on Captain Butler but they want to make an example of someone, so Dr. Meade says. The
doctor  says  that if they do hang him it will be the first good honest job the Yankees ever did, but then, I don't know. . . . And to think that
Captain  Butler  was here just a week ago and brought me the loveliest quail you ever saw for a present and he was asking about you and saying he
feared he had offended you during the siege and you would never forgive him."

"How long will he be in jail?"

"Nobody  knows.  Perhaps  till  they  hang  him, but maybe they won't be able to prove the killing on him, after all. However, it doesn't seem to
bother the Yankees whether folks are guilty or not, so long as they can hang somebody. They are so upset"--Pitty dropped her voice mysteriously--
"about  the  Ku  Klux  Klan.  Do you have the Klan down in the County? My dear, I'm sure you must and Ashley just doesn't tell you girls anything
about  it.  Klansmen  aren't  supposed  to  tell.  They ride around at night dressed up like ghosts and call on Carpetbaggers who steal money and
negroes  who  are  uppity.  Sometimes  they just scare them and warn them to leave Atlanta, but when they don't behave they whip them and," Pitty
whispered,  "sometimes  they kill them and leave them where they'll be easily found with the Ku Klux card on them. . . . And the Yankees are very
angry  about  it  and  want  to  make an example of someone. . . . But Hugh Elsing told me he didn't think they'd hang Captain Butler because the
Yankees think he does know where the money is and just won't tell. They are trying to make him tell."

"The money?"

"Didn't  you  know?  Didn't I write you? My dear, you have been buried at Tara, haven't you? The town simply buzzed when Captain Butler came back
here  with  a  fine horse and carriage and his pockets full of money, when all the rest of us didn't know where our next meal was coming from. It
simply  made  everybody  furious that an old speculator who always said nasty things about the Confederacy should have so much money when we were
all so poor. Everybody was bursting to know how he managed to save his money but no one had the courage to ask him--except me and he just laughed
and said: 'In no honest way, you may be sure.' You know how hard it is to get anything sensible out of him."

"But of course, he made his money out of the blockade--"

"Of  course,  he  did,  honey, some of it. But that's not a drop in the bucket to what that man has really got. Everybody, including the Yankees,
believes he's got millions of dollars in gold belonging to the Confederate government hid out somewhere."

"Millions--in gold?"

"Well,  honey,  where  did  all our Confederate gold go to? Somebody got it and Captain Butler must be one of the somebodies. The Yankees thought
President Davis had it when he left Richmond but when they captured the poor man he had hardly a cent. There just wasn't any money m the treasury
when the war was over and everybody thinks some of the blockade runners got it and are keeping quiet about it."

"Millions--in gold! But how--"

"Didn't Captain Butler take thousands of bales of cotton to England and Nassau to sell for the Confederate government?" asked Pitty triumphantly.
"Not  only  his own cotton but government cotton too? And you know what cotton brought in England during the war! Any price you wanted to ask! He
was  a  free agent acting for the government and he was supposed to sell the cotton and buy guns with the money and run the guns in for us. Well,
when  the  blockade got too tight, he couldn't bring in the guns and he couldn't have spent one one-hundredth of the cotton money on them anyway,
so  there  were simply millions of dollars in English banks put there by Captain Butler and other blockaders, waiting till the blockade loosened.
And you can't tell me they banked that money in the name of the Confederacy. They put it in their own names and it's still there. . . . Everybody
has  been  talking  about  it  ever since the surrender and criticizing the blockaders severely, and when the Yankees arrested Captain Butler for
killing  this  darky they must have heard the rumor, because they've been at him to tell them where the money is. You see, all of our Confederate
funds  belong  to  the  Yankees  now--at least, the Yankees think so. But Captain Butler says he doesn't know anything. . . . Dr. Meade says they
ought  to  hang  him  anyhow, only hanging is too good for a thief and a profiteer-- Dear, you look so oddly! Do you feel faint? Have I upset you
talking like this? I knew he was once a beau of yours but I thought you'd fallen out long ago. Personally, I never approved of him, for he's such
a scamp--"

"He's no friend of mine," said Scarlett with an effort. "I had a quarrel with him during the siege, after you went to Macon. Where--where is he?"

"In the firehouse over near the public square!"

"In the firehouse?"

Aunt Pitty crowed with laughter.

"Yes, he's in the firehouse. The Yankees use it for a military jail now. The Yankees are camped in huts all round the city hall in the square and
the  firehouse  is  just  down  the  street,  so that's where Captain Butler is. And Scarlett, I heard the funniest thing yesterday about Captain
Butler.  I  forget  who  told  me. You know how well groomed he always was--really a dandy--and they've been keeping him in the firehouse and not
letting  him bathe and every day he's been insisting that he wanted a bath and finally they led him out of his cell onto the square and there was
a  long  horse  trough  where  the  whole  regiment  had bathed in the same water! And they told him he could bathe there and he said No, that he
preferred his own brand of Southern dirt to Yankee dirt and--"

Scarlett  heard the cheerful babbling voice going on and on but she did not hear the words. In her mind there were only two ideas, Rhett had more
money than she had even hoped and he was in jail. The fact that he was in jail and possibly might be hanged changed the face of matters somewhat,
in  fact  made  them  look  a  little  brighter.  She  had  very little feeling about Rhett being hanged. Her need of money was too pressing, too
desperate,  for  her  to  bother about his ultimate fate. Besides, she half shared Dr. Meade's opinion that hanging was too good for him. Any man
who'd  leave a woman stranded between two armies in the middle of the night, just to go off and fight for a Cause already lost, deserved hanging.
.  .  . If she could somehow manage to marry him while he was in jail, all those millions would be hers and hers alone should he be executed. And
if  marriage was not possible, perhaps she could get a loan from him by promising to marry him when he was released or by promising--oh promising
anything! And if they hanged him, her day of settlement would never come.

For  a  moment her imagination flamed at the thought of being made a widow by the kindly intervention of the Yankee government. Millions in gold!
She  could  repair  Tara  and  hire hands and plant miles and miles of cotton. And she could have pretty clothes and all she wanted to eat and so
could  Suellen  and Carreen. And Wade could have nourishing food to fill out his thin cheeks and warm clothes and a governess and afterward go to
the  university  .  .  .  and  not  grow up barefooted and ignorant like a Cracker. And a good doctor could look after Pa and as for Ashley--what
couldn't she do for Ashley!

Aunt  Pittypat's monologue broke off suddenly as she said inquiringly: "Yes, Mammy?" and Scarlett, coming back from dreams, saw Mammy standing in
the  doorway,  her hands under her apron and in her eyes an alert piercing look. She wondered how long Mammy had been standing there and how much
she had heard and observed. Probably everything, to judge by the gleam in her old eyes.

"Miss Scarlett look lak she tared. Ah spec she better go ter bed."

"I  am  tired,"  said  Scarlett,  rising  and meeting Mammy's eyes with a childlike, helpless look, "and I'm afraid I'm catching a cold too. Aunt
Pitty,  would  you mind if I stayed in bed tomorrow and didn't go calling with you? I can go calling any time and I'm so anxious to go to Fanny's
wedding tomorrow night. And if my cold gets worse I won't be able to go. And a day in bed would be such a lovely treat for me."

Mammy's  look changed to faint worry as she felt Scarlett's hands and looked into her face. She certainly didn't look well. The excitement of her
thoughts had abruptly ebbed, leaving her white and shaking.

"Yo' han's lak ice, honey. You come ter bed an' Ah'll brew you some sassfrass tea an' git you a hot brick ter mek you sweat."

"How thoughtless I've been," cried the plump old lady, hopping from her chair and patting Scarlett's arm. "Just chattering on and not thinking of
you.  Honey,  you shall stay in bed all tomorrow and rest up and we can gossip together-- Oh, dear, no! I can't be with you. I've promised to sit
with  Mrs.  Bonnell  tomorrow.  She  is  down with la grippe and so is her cook. Mammy, I'm so glad you are here. You must go over with me in the
morning and help me."

Mammy hurried Scarlett up the dark stairs, muttering fussy remarks about cold hands and thin shoes and Scarlett looked meek and was well content.
If she could only lull Mammy's suspicions further and get her out of the house in the morning, all would be well. Then she could go to the Yankee
jail  and see Rhett. As she climbed the stairs, the faint rumbling of thunder began and, standing on the well-remembered landing, she thought how
like the siege cannon it sounded. She shivered. Forever, thunder would mean cannon and war to her.



CHAPTER XXXIV


The sun shone intermittently the next morning and the hard wind that drove dark clouds swiftly across its face rattled the windowpanes and moaned
faintly  about  the  house.  Scarlett  said a brief prayer of thanksgiving that the rain of the previous night had ceased, for she had lain awake
listening  to  it, knowing that it would mean the ruin of her velvet dress and new bonnet. Now that she could catch fleeting glimpses of the sun,
her  spirits soared. She could hardly remain in bed and look languid and make croaking noises until Aunt Pitty, Mammy and Uncle Peter were out of
the  house  and  on  their  way to Mrs. Bonnell's. When, at last, the front gate banged and she was alone in the house, except for Cookie who was
singing in the kitchen, she leaped from the bed and lifted her new clothes from the closet hooks.

Sleep  had  refreshed  her  and  given her strength and from the cold hard core at the bottom of her heart, she drew courage. There was something
about  the  prospect  of  a struggle of wits with a man--with any man--that put her on her mettle and, after months of battling against countless
discouragements,  the  knowledge  that  she  was  at  last facing a definite adversary, one whom she might unhorse by her own efforts, gave her a
buoyant sensation.

Dressing unaided was difficult but she finally accomplished it and putting on the bonnet with its rakish feathers she ran to Aunt Pitty's room to
preen  herself  in  front  of  the  long mirror. How pretty she looked! The cock feathers gave her a dashing air and the dull-green velvet of the
bonnet  made  her  eyes  startlingly  bright,  almost  emerald  colored.  And the dress was incomparable, so rich and handsome looking and yet so
dignified! It was wonderful to have a lovely dress again. It was so nice to know that she looked pretty and provocative, and she impulsively bent
forward  and  kissed  her reflection in the mirror and then laughed at her own foolishness. She picked up Ellen's Paisley shawl to wrap about her
but  the  colors  of  the faded old square clashed with the moss-green dress and made her appear a little shabby. Opening Aunt Pitty's closet she
removed a black broadcloth cloak, a thin fall garment which Pitty used only for Sunday wear, and put it on. She slipped into her pierced ears the
diamond  earrings  she  had  brought  from  Tara,  and  tossed her head to observe the effect. They made pleasant clicking noises which were very
satisfactory and she thought that she must remember to toss her head frequently when with Rhett. Dancing earrings always attracted a man and gave
a girl such a spirited air.

What  a  shame  Aunt  Pitty  had  no  other gloves than the ones now on her fat hands! No woman could really feel like a lady without gloves, but
Scarlett  had  not  had  a pair since she left Atlanta. And the long months of hard work at Tara had roughened her hands until they were far from
pretty.  Well,  it couldn't be helped. She'd take Aunt Pitty's little seal muff and hide her bare hands in it. Scarlett felt that it gave her the
final finishing touch of elegance. No one, looking at her now, would suspect that poverty and want were standing at her shoulder.

It was so important that Rhett should not suspect. He must not think that anything but tender feelings were driving her.

She tiptoed down the stairs and out of the house while Cookie bawled on unconcernedly in the kitchen. She hastened down Baker Street to avoid the
all  seeing eyes of the neighbors and sat down on a carriage block on Ivy Street in front of a burned house, to wait for some passing carriage or
wagon  which  would give her a ride. The sun dipped in and out from behind hurrying clouds, lighting the street with a false brightness which had
no  warmth  in  it, and the wind fluttered the lace of her pantalets. It was colder than she had expected and she wrapped Aunt Pitty's thin cloak
about  her  and  shivered  impatiently.  Just as she was preparing to start walking the long way across town to the Yankee encampment, a battered
wagon  appeared.  In  it was an old woman with a lip full of snuff and a weather-beaten face under a drab sunbonnet, driving a dawdling old mule.
She was going in the direction of the city hall and she grudgingly gave Scarlett a ride. But it was obvious that the dress, bonnet and muff found
no favor with her.

"She thinks I'm a hussy," thought Scarlett. "And perhaps she's right at that!"

When  at last they reached the town square and the tall white cupola of the city hall loomed up, she made her thanks, climbed down from the wagon
and watched the country woman drive off. Looking around carefully to see that she was not observed, she pinched her cheeks to give them color and
bit  her  lips  until  they stung to make them red. She adjusted the bonnet and smoothed back her hair and looked about the square. The two-story
red-brick  city  hall  had  survived  the  burning  of  the  city. But it looked forlorn and unkempt under the gray sky. Surrounding the building
completely  and  covering  the square of land of which it was the center were row after row of army huts, dingy and mud splashed. Yankee soldiers
loitered  everywhere  and  Scarlett  looked  at them uncertainly, some of her courage deserting her. How would she go about finding Rhett in this
enemy camp?

She  looked  down  the  street toward the firehouse and saw that the wide arched doors were closed and heavily barred and two sentries passed and
repassed  on  each  side of the building. Rhett was in there. But what should she say to the Yankee soldiers? And what would they say to her? She
squared her shoulders. If she hadn't been afraid to kill one Yankee, she shouldn't fear merely talking to another.

She picked her way precariously across the stepping stones of the muddy street and walked forward until a sentry, his blue overcoat buttoned high
against the wind, stopped her.

"What is it, Ma'm?" His voice had a strange mid-Western twang but it was polite and respectful.

"I want to see a man in there--he is a prisoner."

"Well, I don't know," said the sentry, scratching his head. "They are mighty particular about visitors and--" He stopped and peered into her face
sharply. "Lord, lady! Don't you cry! You go over to post headquarters and ask the officers. They'll let you see him, I bet."

Scarlett, who had no intention of crying, beamed at him. He turned to another sentry who was slowly pacing his beat: "Yee-ah, Bill. Come'eer."

The second sentry, a large man muffled in a blue overcoat from which villainous black whiskers burst, came through the mud toward them.

"You take this lady to headquarters."

Scarlett thanked him and followed the sentry.

"Mind  you  don't  turn your ankle on those stepping stones," said the soldier, taking her arm. "And you'd better hist up your skirts a little to
keep them out of the mud."

The voice issuing from the whiskers had the same nasal twang but was kind and pleasant and his hand was firm and respectful. Why, Yankees weren't
bad at all!

"It's a mighty cold day for a lady to be out in," said her escort. "Have you come a fer piece?"

"Oh, yes, from clear across the other side of town," she said, warming to the kindness in his voice.

"This  ain't  no weather for a lady to be out in," said the soldier reprovingly, "with all this la grippe in the air. Here's Post Command, lady--
What's the matter?"

"This  house--this  house is your headquarters?" Scarlett looked up at the lovely old dwelling facing on the square and could have cried. She had
been  to  so  many parties in this house during the war. It had been a gay beautiful place and now--there was a large United States flag floating
over it.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing--only--only--I used to know the people who lived here."

"Well,  that's  too bad. I guess they wouldn't know it themselves if they saw it, for it shore is torn up on the inside. Now, you go on in, Ma'm,
and ask for the captain."

She  went  up  the  steps,  caressing  the broken white banisters, and pushed open the front door. The hall was dark and as cold as a vault and a
shivering sentry was leaning against the closed folding doors of what had been, in better days, the dining room.

"I want to see the captain," she said.

He  pulled  back  the doors and she entered the room, her heart beating rapidly, her face flushing with embarrassment and excitement. There was a
close  stuffy  smell  in  the  room,  compounded of the smoking fire, tobacco fumes, leather, damp woolen uniforms and unwashed bodies. She had a
confused impression of bare walls with torn wallpaper, rows of blue overcoats and slouch hats hung on nails, a roaring fire, a long table covered
with papers and a group of officers in blue uniforms with brass buttons.

She  gulped  once and found her voice. She mustn't let these Yankees know she was afraid. She must look and be her prettiest and most unconcerned
self.

"The captain?"

"I'm one captain," said a fat man whose tunic was unbuttoned.

"I want to see a prisoner, Captain Rhett Butler."

"Butler again? He's popular, that man," laughed the captain, taking a chewed cigar from his mouth. "You a relative, Ma'm?"

"Yes--his--his sister."

He laughed again.

"He's got a lot of sisters, one of them here yesterday."

Scarlett flushed. One of those creatures Rhett consorted with, probably that Watling woman. And these Yankees thought she was another one. It was
unendurable.  Not  even  for Tara would she stay here another minute and be insulted. She turned to the door and reached angrily for the knob but
another officer was by her side quickly. He was clean shaven and young and had merry, kind eyes.

"Just  a  minute, Ma'm. Won't you sit down here by the fire where it's warm? I'll go see what I can do about it. What is your name? He refused to
see the--lady who called yesterday."

She  sank into the proffered chair, glaring at the discomfited fat captain, and gave her name. The nice young officer slipped on his overcoat and
left  the  room  and  the  others  took  themselves  off  to the far end of the table where they talked in low tones and pawed at the papers. She
stretched  her  feet  gratefully  toward  the fire, realizing for the first time how cold they were and wishing she had thought to put a piece of
cardboard  over the hole in the sole of one slipper. After a time, voices murmured outside the door and she heard Rhett's laugh. The door opened,
a  cold  draft  swept  the  room  and  Rhett appeared, hatless, a long cape thrown carelessly across his shoulders. He was dirty and unshaven and
without a cravat but somehow jaunty despite his dishabille, and his dark eyes were snapping joyfully at the sight of her.

"Scarlett!"

He  had her hands in both of his and, as always, there was something hot and vital and exciting about his grip. Before she quite knew what he was
about,  he  had  bent  and kissed her cheek, his mustache tickling her. As he felt the startled movement of her body away from him, he hugged her
about the shoulders and said: "My darling little sister!" and grinned down at her as if he relished her helplessness in resisting his caress. She
couldn't help laughing back at him for the advantage he had taken. What a rogue he was! Jail had not changed him one bit.

The fat captain was muttering through his cigar to the merry-eyed officer.

"Most irregular. He should be in the firehouse. You know the orders."

"Oh, for God's sake, Henry! The lady would freeze in that barn."

"Oh, all right, all right! It's your responsibility."

"I  assure  you, gentlemen," said Rhett, turning to them but still keeping a grip on Scarlett's shoulders, "my--sister hasn't brought me any saws
or files to help me escape."

They  all  laughed  and,  as  they did, Scarlett looked quickly about her. Good Heavens, was she going to have to talk to Rhett before six Yankee
officers! Was he so dangerous a prisoner they wouldn't let him out of their sight? Seeing her anxious glance, the nice officer pushed open a door
and  spoke  brief low words to two privates who had leaped to their feet at his entrance. They picked up their rifles and went out into the hall,
closing the door behind them.

"If you wish, you may sit here in the orderly room," said the young captain. "And don't try to bolt through that door. The men are just outside."

"You see what a desperate character I am, Scarlett," said Rhett. "Thank you, Captain. This is most kind or you."

He  bowed  carelessly  and  taking Scarlett's arm pulled her to her feet and propelled her into the dingy orderly room. She was never to remember
what  the room looked like except that it was small and dim and none too warm and there were handwritten papers tacked on the mutilated walls and
chairs which had cowhide seats with the hair still on them.

When  he had closed the door behind them, Rhett came to her swiftly and bent over her. Knowing his desire, she turned her head quickly but smiled
provocatively at him out of the corners of her eyes.

"Can't I really kiss you now?"

"On the forehead, like a good brother," she answered demurely.

"Thank  you, no. I prefer to wait and hope for better things." His eyes sought her lips and lingered there a moment. "But how good of you to come
to  see  me,  Scarlett! You are the first respectable citizen who has called on me since my incarceration, and being in jail makes one appreciate
friends. When did you come to town?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"And you came out this morning? Why, my dear, you are more than good." He smiled down at her with the first expression of honest pleasure she had
ever seen on his face. Scarlett smiled inwardly with excitement and ducked her head as if embarrassed.

"Of  course, I came out right away. Aunt Pitty told me about you last night and I--I just couldn't sleep all night for thinking how awful it was.
Rhett, I'm so distressed!"

"Why, Scarlett!"

His  voice was soft but there was a vibrant note in it, and looking up into his dark face she saw in it none of the skepticism, the jeering humor
she knew so well. Before his direct gaze her eyes fell again in real confusion. Things were going even better than she hoped.

"It's  worth  being  in  jail  to see you again and to hear you say things like that. I really couldn't believe my ears when they brought me your
name.  You  see, I never expected you to forgive me for my patriotic conduct that night on the road near Rough and Ready. But I take it that this
call means you have forgiven me?"

She  could  feel swift anger stir, even at this late date, as she thought of that night but she subdued it and tossed her head until the earrings
danced.

"No, I haven't forgiven you," she said and pouted.

"Another  hope  crushed.  And  after  I offered up myself for my country and fought barefooted in the snow at Franklin and got the finest case of
dysentery you ever heard of for my pains!"

"I  don't  want  to hear about your--pains," she said, still pouting but smiling at him from up-tilted eyes. "I still think you were hateful that
night and I never expect to forgive you. Leaving me alone like that when anything might have happened to me!"

"But  nothing did happen to you. So, you see, my confidence in you was justified. I knew you'd get home safely and God help any Yankee who got in
your way!"

"Rhett,  why  on earth did you do such a silly thing--enlisting at the last minute when you knew we were going to get licked? And after all you'd
said about idiots who went out and got shot!"

"Scarlett, spare me! I am always overcome with shame when I think about it."

"Well, I'm glad to learn you are ashamed of the way you treated me."

"You  misunderstand.  I  regret  to  say that my conscience has not troubled me at all about deserting you. But as for enlisting--when I think of
joining  the army in varnished boots and a white linen suit and armed with only a pair of dueling pistols-- And those long cold miles in the snow
after  my boots wore out and I had no overcoat and nothing to eat . . . I cannot understand why I did not desert. It was all the purest insanity.
But it's in one's blood. Southerners can never resist a losing cause. But never mind my reasons. It's enough that I'm forgiven."

"You're not. I think you're a hound." But she caressed the last word until it might have been "darling."

"Don't fib. You've forgiven me. Young ladies don't dare Yankee sentries to see a prisoner, just for charity's sweet sake, and come all dressed up
in  velvet  and  feathers and seal muffs too. Scarlett, how pretty you look! Thank God, you aren't in rags or mourning! I get so sick of women in
dowdy old clothes and perpetual crepe. You look like the Rue de la Paix. Turn around, my dear, and let me look at you."

So  he had noticed the dress. Of course, he would notice such things, being Rhett. She laughed in soft excitement and spun about on her toes, her
arms  extended,  her hoops tilting up to show her lace trimmed pantalets. His black eyes took her in from bonnet to heels in a glance that missed
nothing, that old impudent unclothing glance which always gave her goose bumps.

"You  look  very  prosperous and very, very tidy. And almost good enough to eat. If it wasn't for the Yankees outside--but you are quite safe, my
dear. Sit down. I won't take advantage of you as I did the last time I saw you." He rubbed his cheek with pseudo ruefulness. "Honestly, Scarlett,
don't  you  think you were a bit selfish that night? Think of all I had done for you, risked my life--stolen a horse--and such a horse! Rushed to
the defense of Our Glorious Cause! And what did I get for my pains? Some hard words and a very hard slap in the face."

She sat down. The conversation was not going in quite the direction she hoped. He had seemed so nice when he first saw her, so genuinely glad she
had come. He had almost seemed like a human being and not the perverse wretch she knew so well.

"Must you always get something for your pains?"

"Why, of course! I am a monster of selfishness, as you ought to know. I always expect payment for anything I give."

That sent a slight chill through her but she rallied and jingled her earbobs again.

"Oh, you really aren't so bad, Rhett. You just like to show off."

"My  word,  but  you have changed!" he said and laughed. "What has made a Christian of you? I have kept up with you through Miss Pittypat but she
gave  me no intimation that you had developed womanly sweetness. Tell me more about yourself, Scarlett. What have you been doing since I last saw
you?"

The old irritation and antagonism which he roused in her was hot in her heart and she yearned to speak tart words. But she smiled instead and the
dimple  crept  into  her  cheek.  He  had drawn a chair close beside hers and she leaned over and put a gentle hand on his arm, in an unconscious
manner.

"Oh,  I've  been  doing nicely, thank you, and everything at Tara is fine now. Of course, we had a dreadful time right after Sherman went through
but,  after  all,  he  didn't burn the house and the darkies saved most of the livestock by driving it into the swamp. And we cleared a fair crop
this  last  fall, twenty bales. Of course, that's practically nothing compared with what Tara can do but we haven't many field hands. Pa says, of
course,  we'll  do better next year. But, Rhett, it's so dull in the country now! Imagine, there aren't any balls or barbecues and the only thing
people  talk  about is hard times! Goodness, I get sick of it! Finally last week I got too bored to stand it any longer, so Pa said I must take a
trip  and  have a good time. So I came up here to get me some frocks made and then I'm going over to Charleston to visit my aunt. It'll be lovely
to go to balls again."

There, she thought with pride, I delivered that with just the right airy way! Not too rich but certainly not poor.

"You  look beautiful in ball dresses, my dear, and you know it too, worse luck! I suppose the real reason you are going visiting is that you have
run through the County swains and are seeking fresh ones in fields afar."

Scarlett  had  a  thankful  thought that Rhett had spent the last several months abroad and had only recently come back to Atlanta. Otherwise, he
would  never  have made so ridiculous a statement. She thought briefly of the County swains, the ragged embittered little Fontaines, the poverty-
stricken  Munroe  boys, the Jonesboro and Fayetteville beaux who were so busy plowing, splitting rails and nursing sick old animals that they had
forgotten  such  things as balls and pleasant flirtations ever existed. But she put down this memory and giggled self-consciously as if admitting
the truth of his assertion.

"Oh, well," she said deprecatingly.

"You  are a heartless creature, Scarlett, but perhaps that's part of your charm." He smiled in his old way, one corner of his mouth curving down,
but  she  knew  he  was  complimenting  her. "For, of course, you know you have more charm than the law should permit. Even I have felt it, case-
hardened  though  I  am. I've often wondered what it was about you that made me always remember you, for I've known many ladies who were prettier
than  you  and  certainly  more  clever and, I fear, morally more upright and kind. But, somehow, I always remembered you. Even during the months
since the surrender when I was in France and England and hadn't seen you or heard of you and was enjoying the society of many beautiful ladies, I
always remembered you and wondered what you were doing."

For  a  moment  she was indignant that he should say other women were prettier, more clever and kind than she, but that momentary flare was wiped
out  in  her  pleasure  that  he  had remembered her and her charm. So he hadn't forgotten! That would make things easier. And he was behaving so
nicely,  almost  like  a gentleman would do under the circumstances. Now, all she had to do was bring the subject around to himself, so she could
intimate that she had not forgotten him either and then--

She gently squeezed his arm and dimpled again.

"Oh,  Rhett,  how you do run on, teasing a country girl like me! I know mighty well you never gave me a thought after you left me that night. You
can't  tell  me  you ever thought of me with all those pretty French and English girls around you. But I didn't come all the way out here to hear
you talk foolishness about me. I came--I came--because--"

"Because?"

"Oh, Rhett, I'm so terribly distressed about you! So frightened for you! When will they let you out of that terrible place?"

He swiftly covered her hand with his and held it hard against his arm.

"Your distress does you credit. There's no telling when I'll be out. Probably when they've stretched the rope a bit more."

"The rope?"

"Yes, I expect to make my exit from here at the rope's end."

"They won't really hang you?"

"They will if they can get a little more evidence against me."

"Oh, Rhett!" she cried, her hand at her heart.

"Would you be sorry? If you are sorry enough, I'll mention you in my will."

His dark eyes laughed at her recklessly and he squeezed her hand.

His will! She hastily cast down her eyes for fear of betrayal but not swiftly enough, for his eyes gleamed, suddenly curious.

"According to the Yankees, I ought to have a fine will. There seems to be considerable interest in my finances at present. Every day, I am hauled
up  before  another  board  of  inquiry  and  asked  foolish  questions.  The  rumor  seems current that I made off with the mythical gold of the
Confederacy."

"Well--did you?"

"What a leading question! You know as well as I do that the Confederacy ran a printing press instead of a mint."

"Where did you get all your money? Speculating? Aunt Pittypat said--"

"What probing questions you ask!"

Damn him! Of course, he had the money. She was so excited it became difficult to talk sweetly to him.

"Rhett, I'm so upset about your being here. Don't you think there's a chance of your getting out?"

"'Nihil desperandum' is my motto."

"What does that mean?"

"It means 'maybe,' my charming ignoramus."

She fluttered her thick lashes up to look at him and fluttered them down again.

"Oh, you're too smart to let them hang you! I know you'll think of some clever way to beat them and get out! And when you do--"

"And when I do?" he asked softly, leaning closer.

"Well,  I--"  and she managed a pretty confusion and a blush. The blush was not difficult for she was breathless and her heart was beating like a
drum.  "Rhett, I'm so sorry about what I--I said to you that night--you know--at Rough and Ready. I was--oh, so very frightened and upset and you
were  so--so--"  She  looked down and saw his brown hand tighten over hers. "And--I thought then that I'd never, never forgive you! But when Aunt
Pitty  told  me  yesterday that you--that they might hang you--it came over me of a sudden and I--I--" She looked up into his eyes with one swift
imploring glance and in it she put an agony of heartbreak. "Oh, Rhett, I'd die if they hanged you! I couldn't bear it! You see, I--" And, because
she could not longer sustain the hot leaping light that was in his eyes, her lids fluttered down again.

In a moment I'll be crying, she thought in a frenzy of wonder and excitement. Shall I let myself cry? Would that seem more natural?

He said quickly: "My God, Scarlett, you can't mean that you--" and his hands closed over hers in so hard a grip that it hurt.

She shut her eyes tightly, trying to squeeze out tears, but remembered to turn her face up slightly so he could kiss her with no difficulty. Now,
in  an instant his lips would be upon hers, the hard insistent lips which she suddenly remembered with a vividness that left her weak. But he did
not  kiss  her.  Disappointment  queerly  stirring her, she opened her eyes a trifle and ventured a peep at him. His black head was bent over her
hands  and,  as  she watched, he lifted one and kissed it and, taking the other, laid it against his cheek for a moment. Expecting violence, this
gentle and loverlike gesture startled her. She wondered what expression was on his face but could not tell for his head was bowed.

She  quickly  lowered  her  gaze lest he should look up suddenly and see the expression on her face. She knew that the feeling of triumph surging
through  her  was certain to be plain in her eyes. In a moment he would ask her to marry him--or at least say that he loved her and then . . . As
she  watched  him  through  the veil of her lashes he turned her hand over, palm up, to kiss it too, and suddenly he drew a quick breath. Looking
down she saw her own palm, saw it as it really was for the first time in a year, and a cold sinking fear gripped her. This was a stranger's palm,
not  Scarlett  O'Hara's soft, white, dimpled, helpless one. This hand was rough from work, brown with sunburn, splotched with freckles. The nails
were  broken and irregular, there were heavy calluses on the cushions of the palm, a half-healed blister on the thumb. The red scar which boiling
fat had left last month was ugly and glaring. She looked at it in horror and, before she thought, she swiftly clenched her fist.

Still  he  did not raise his head. Still she could not see his face. He pried her fist open inexorably and stared at it, picked up her other hand
and held them both together silently, looking down at them.

"Look at me," he said finally raising his head, and his voice was very quiet. "And drop that demure expression."

Unwillingly she met his eyes, defiance and perturbation on her face. His black brows were up and his eyes gleamed.

"So  you  have  been  doing very nicely at Tara, have you? Cleared so much money on the cotton you can go visiting. What have you been doing with
your hands--plowing?"

She tried to wrench them away but he held them hard, running his thumbs over the calluses.

"These are not the hands of a lady," he said and tossed them into her lap.

"Oh, shut up!" she cried, feeling a momentary intense relief at being able to speak her feelings. "Whose business is it what I do with my hands?"

What  a  fool I am, she thought vehemently. I should have borrowed or stolen Aunt Pitty's gloves. But I didn't realize my hands looked so bad. Of
course,  he would notice them. And now I've lost my temper and probably ruined everything. Oh, to have this happen when he was right at the point
of a declaration!

"Your hands are certainly no business of mine," said Rhett coolly and lounged back in his chair indolently, his face a smooth blank.

So  he  was  going  to  be  difficult.  Well,  she'd have to bear it meekly, much as she disliked it, if she expected to snatch victory from this
debacle. Perhaps if she sweet-talked him--

"I think you're real rude to throw off on my poor hands. Just because I went riding last week without my gloves and ruined them--"

"Riding, hell!" he said in the same level voice. "You've been working with those hands, working like a nigger. What's the answer? Why did you lie
to me about everything being nice at Tara?"

"Now, Rhett--"

"Suppose  we  get  down  to  the  truth.  What  is the real purpose of your visit? Almost, I was persuaded by your coquettish airs that you cared
something about me and were sorry for me."

"Oh, I am sorry! Indeed--"

"No, you aren't. They can hang me higher than Haman for all you care. It's written as plainly on your face as hard work is written on your hands.
You  wanted something from me and you wanted it badly enough to put on quite a show. Why didn't you come out in the open and tell me what it was?
You'd  have stood a much better chance of getting it, for if there's one virtue I value in women it's frankness. But no, you had to come jingling
your earbobs and pouting and frisking like a prostitute with a prospective client."

He  did not raise his voice at the last words or emphasize them in any way but to Scarlett they cracked like a whiplash, and with despair she saw
the  end  of her hopes of getting him to propose marriage. Had he exploded with rage and injured vanity or upbraided her, as other men would have
done,  she could have handled him. But the deadly quietness of his voice frightened her, left her utterly at a loss as to her next move. Although
he was a prisoner and the Yankees were in the next room, it came to her suddenly that Rhett Butler was a dangerous man to run afoul of.

"I  suppose  my  memory  is  getting  faulty. I should have recalled that you are just like me and that you never do anything without an ulterior
motive.  Now, let me see. What could you have had up your sleeve, Mrs. Hamilton? It isn't possible that you were so misguided as to think I would
propose matrimony?"

Her face went crimson and she did not answer.

"But you can't have forgotten my oft-repeated remark that I am not a marrying man?"

When she did not speak, he said with sudden violence:

"You hadn't forgotten? Answer me."

"I hadn't forgotten," she said wretchedly.

"What  a  gambler  you  are, Scarlett," he jeered. "You took a chance that my incarceration away from female companionship would put me in such a
state I'd snap at you like a trout at a worm."

And that's what you did, thought Scarlett with inward rage, and if it hadn't been for my hands--

"Now, we have most of the truth, everything except your reason. See if you can tell me the truth about why you wanted to lead me into wedlock."

There  was a suave, almost teasing note in his voice and she took heart. Perhaps everything wasn't lost, after all. Of course, she had ruined any
hope  of  marriage  but,  even  in  her  despair, she was glad. There was something about this immobile man which frightened her, so that now the
thought  of  marrying  him was fearful. But perhaps if she was clever and played on his sympathies and his memories, she could secure a loan. She
pulled her face into a placating and childlike expression.

"Oh, Rhett, you can help me so much--if you'll just be sweet."

"There's nothing I like better than being--sweet."

"Rhett, for old friendship's sake, I want you to do me a favor."

"So, at last the horny-handed lady comes to her real mission. I feared that 'visiting the sick and the imprisoned' was not your proper role. What
do you want? Money?"

The bluntness of his question ruined all hopes of leading up to the matter in any circuitous and sentimental way.

"Don't be mean, Rhett," she coaxed. "I do want some money. I want you to lend me three hundred dollars."

"The truth at last. Talking love and thinking money. How truly feminine! Do you need the money badly?"

"Oh, ye-- Well, not so terribly but I could use it."

"Three hundred dollars. That's a vast amount of money. What do you want it for?"

"To pay taxes on Tara."

"So you want to borrow some money. Well, since you're so businesslike, I'll be businesslike too. What collateral will you give me?"

"What what?"

"Collateral.  Security on my investment. Of course, I don't want to lose all that money." His voice was deceptively smooth, almost silky, but she
did not notice. Maybe everything would turn out nicely after all.

"My earrings."

"I'm not interested in earrings."

"I'll give you a mortgage on Tara."

"Now just what would I do with a farm?"

"Well, you could--you could--it's a good plantation. And you wouldn't lose. I'd pay you back out of next year's cotton."

"I'm  not so sure." He tilted back in his chair and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Cotton prices are dropping. Times are so hard and money's so
tight."

"Oh, Rhett, you are teasing me! You know you have millions!"

There was a warm dancing malice in his eyes as he surveyed her.

"So  everything  is  going  nicely and you don't need the money very badly. Well, I'm glad to hear that. I like to know that all is well with old
friends."

"Oh, Rhett, for God's sake . . ." she began desperately, her courage and control breaking.

"Do lower your voice. You don't want the Yankees to hear you, I hope. Did anyone ever tell you you had eyes like a cat--a cat in the dark?"

"Rhett,  don't!  I'll  tell you everything. I do need the money so badly. I--I lied about everything being all right. Everything's as wrong as it
could  be.  Father  is--is--he's  not  himself.  He's  been queer ever since Mother died and he can't help me any. He's just like a child. And we
haven't a single field hand to work the cotton and there's so many to feed, thirteen of us. And the taxes--they are so high. Rhett, I'll tell you
everything.  For  over a year we've been just this side of starvation. Oh, you don't know! You can't know! We've never had enough to eat and it's
terrible to wake up hungry and go to sleep hungry. And we haven't any warm clothes and the children are always cold and sick and--"

"Where did you get the pretty dress?"

"It's  made out of Mother's curtains," she answered, too desperate to lie about this shame. "I could stand being hungry and cold but now--now the
Carpetbaggers  have  raised our taxes. And the money's got to be paid right away. And I haven't any money except one five-dollar gold piece. I've
got to have money for the taxes! Don't you see? If I don't pay them, I'll--we'll lose Tara and we just can't lose it! I can't let it go!"

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  all  this  at  first  instead of preying on my susceptible heart--always weak where pretty ladies are concerned? No,
Scarlett,  don't  cry.  You've  tried  every  trick  except  that  one and I don't think I could stand it. My feelings are already lacerated with
disappointment at discovering it was my money and not my charming self you wanted."

She  remembered  that  he  frequently  told bald truths about himself when he spoke mockingly--mocking himself as well as others, and she hastily
looked  up  at him. Were his feelings really hurt? Did he really care about her? Had he been on the verge of a proposal when he saw her palms? Or
had  he  only been leading up to another such odious proposal as he had made twice before? If he really cared about her, perhaps she could smooth
him down. But his black eyes raked her in no lover-like way and he was laughing softly.

"I don't like your collateral. I'm no planter. What else have you to offer?"

Well,  she  had come to it at last. Now for it! She drew a deep breath and met his eyes squarely, all coquetry and airs gone as her spirit rushed
out to grapple that which she feared most.

"I--I have myself."

"Yes?"

Her jaw line tightened to squareness and her eyes went emerald.

"You remember that night on Aunt Pitty's porch, during the siege? You said--you said then that you wanted me."

He  leaned back carelessly in his chair and looked into her tense face and his own dark face was inscrutable. Something flickered behind his eyes
but he said nothing.

"You  said--you  said you'd never wanted a woman as much as you wanted me. If you still want me, you can have me. Rhett, I'll do anything you say
but, for God's sake, write me a draft for the money! My word's good. I swear it. I won't go back on it. I'll put it in writing if you like."

He looked at her oddly, still inscrutable and as she hurried on she could not tell if he were amused or repelled. If he would only say something,
anything! She felt her cheeks getting hot.

"I have got to have the money soon, Rhett. They'll turn us out in the road and that damned overseer of Father's will own the place and--"

"Just  a  minute.  What  makes  you  think I still want you? What makes you think you are worth three hundred dollars? Most women don't come that
high."

She blushed to her hair line and her humiliation was complete.

"Why are you doing this? Why not let the farm go and live at Miss Pittypat's. You own half that house."

"Name of God!" she cried. "Are you a fool? I can't let Tara go. It's home. I won't let it go. Not while I've got breath left in me!"

"The  Irish,"  said  he,  lowering  his  chair  back  to level and removing his hands from his pockets, "are the damnedest race. They put so much
emphasis  on  so  many  wrong  things.  Land,  for  instance. And every bit of earth is just like every other bit. Now, let me get this straight,
Scarlett. You are coming to me with a business proposition. I'll give you three hundred dollars and you'll become my mistress."

"Yes."

Now that the repulsive word had been said, she felt somehow easier and hope awoke in her again. He had said "I'll give you." There was a diabolic
gleam in his eyes as if something amused him greatly.

"And  yet,  when  I had the effrontery to make you this same proposition, you turned me out of the house. And also you called me a number of very
hard  names  and  mentioned  in  passing  that you didn't want a 'passel of brats.' No, my dear, I'm not rubbing it in. I'm only wondering at the
peculiarities  of  your  mind. You wouldn't do it for your own pleasure but you will to keep the wolf away from the door. It proves my point that
all virtue is merely a matter of prices."

"Oh, Rhett, how you run on! If you want to insult me, go on and do it but give me the money."

She  was  breathing  easier  now. Being what he was, Rhett would naturally want to torment and insult her as much as possible to pay her back for
past slights and for her recent attempted trickery. Well, she could stand it. She could stand anything. Tara was worth it all. For a brief moment
it  was  mid-summer  and the afternoon skies were blue and she lay drowsily in the thick clover of Tara's lawn, looking up at the billowing cloud
castles,  the fragrance of white blossoms in her nose and the pleasant busy humming of bees in her ears. Afternoon and hush and the far-off sound
of the wagons coming in from the spiraling red fields. Worth it all, worth more.

Her head went up.

"Are you going to give me the money?"

He looked as if he were enjoying himself and when he spoke there was suave brutality in his voice.

"No, I'm not," he said.

For a moment her mind could not adjust itself to his words.

"I  couldn't  give it to you, even if I wanted to. I haven't a cent on me. Not a dollar in Atlanta. I have some money, yes, but not here. And I'm
not  saying  where it is or how much. But if I tried to draw a draft on it, the Yankees would be on me like a duck on a June bug and then neither
of us would get it. What do you think of that?"

Her  face  went  an  ugly  green, freckles suddenly standing out across her nose and her contorted mouth was like Gerald's in a killing rage. She
sprang to her feet with an incoherent cry which made the hum of voices in the next room cease suddenly. Swift as a panther, Rhett was beside her,
his  heavy  hand  across her mouth, his arm tight about her waist. She struggled against him madly, trying to bite his hand, to kick his legs, to
scream  her  rage, despair, hate, her agony of broken pride. She bent and twisted every way against the iron of his arm, her heart near bursting,
her  tight  stays  cutting  off  her  breath.  He  held her so tightly, so roughly that it hurt and the hand over her mouth pinched into her jaws
cruelly. His face was white under its tan, his eyes hard and anxious as he lifted her completely off her feet, swung her up against his chest and
sat down in the chair, holding her writhing in his lap.

"Darling,  for God's sake! Stop! Hush! Don't yell. They'll be in here in a minute if you do. Do calm yourself. Do you want the Yankees to see you
like this?"

She  was  beyond caring who saw her, beyond anything except a fiery desire to kill him, but dizziness was sweeping her. She could not breathe; he
was  choking her; her stays were like a swiftly compressing band of iron; his arms about her made her shake with helpless hate and fury. Then his
voice  became  thin  and  dim and his face above her swirled in a sickening mist which became heavier and heavier until she no longer saw him--or
anything else.

When  she  made  feeble  swimming  motions to come back to consciousness, she was tired to her bones, weak, bewildered. She was lying back in the
chair,  her  bonnet  off,  Rhett was slapping her wrist, his black eyes searching her face anxiously. The nice young captain was trying to pour a
glass of brandy into her mouth and had spilled it down her neck. The other officers hovered helplessly about, whispering and waving their hands.

"I--guess I must have fainted," she said, and her voice sounded so far away it frightened her.

"Drink this," said Rhett, taking the glass and pushing it against her lips. Now she remembered and glared feebly at him but she was too tired for
anger.

"Please, for my sake."

She  gulped  and  choked  and  began coughing but he pushed it to her mouth again. She swallowed deeply and the hot liquid burned suddenly in her
throat.

"I think she's better now, gentlemen," said Rhett, "and I thank you very much. The realization that I'm to be executed was too much for her."

The  group  in blue shuffled their feet and looked embarrassed and after several clearings of throats, they tramped out. The young captain paused
in the doorway.

"If there's anything more I can do--"

"No, thank you."

He went out, closing the door behind him.

"Drink some more," said Rhett.

"No."

"Drink it."

She  swallowed another mouthful and the warmth began spreading through her body and strength flowed slowly back into her shaking legs. She pushed
away the glass and tried to rise but he pressed her back.

"Take your hands off me. I'm going."

"Not yet. Wait a minute. You might faint again."

"I'd rather faint in the road than be here with you."

"Just the same, I won't have you fainting in the road."

"Let me go. I hate you."

A faint smile came back to his face at her words.

"That sounds more like you. You must be feeling better."

She lay relaxed for a moment, trying to summon anger to her aid, trying to draw on her strength. But she was too tired. She was too tired to hate
or to care very much about anything. Defeat lay on her spirit like lead. She had gambled everything and lost everything. Not even pride was left.
This was the dead end of her last hope. This was the end of Tara, the end of them all. For a long time she lay back with her eyes closed, hearing
his  heavy  breathing  near her, and the glow of the brandy crept gradually over her, giving a false strength and warmth. When finally she opened
her  eyes  and  looked  him  in the face, anger had roused again. As her slanting eyebrows rushed down together in a frown Rhett's old smile came
back.

"Now you are better. I can tell it by your scowl."

"Of  course,  I'm  all  right. Rhett Butler, you are hateful, a skunk, if ever I saw one! You knew very well what I was going to say as soon as I
started talking and you knew you weren't going to give me the money. And yet you let me go right on. You could have spared me--"

"Spared  you  and missed hearing all that? Not much. I have so few diversions here. I don't know when I've ever heard anything so gratifying." He
laughed his sudden mocking laugh. At the sound she leaped to her feet, snatching up her bonnet.

He suddenly had her by the shoulders.

"Not quite yet. Do you feel well enough to talk sense?"

"Let me go!"

"You are well enough, I see. Then, tell me this. Was I the only iron you had in the fire?" His eyes were keen and alert, watching every change in
her face.

"What do you mean?"

"Was I the only man you were going to try this on?"

"Is that any of your business?"

"More than you realize. Are there any other men on your string? Tell me!"

"No."

"Incredible.  I  can't  imagine you without five or six in reserve. Surely someone will turn up to accept your interesting proposition. I feel so
sure of it that I want to give you a little advice."

"I don't want your advice."

"Nevertheless  I  will  give  it.  Advice  seems to be the only thing I can give you at present. Listen to it, for it's good advice. When you are
trying  to get something out of a man, don't blurt it out as you did to me. Do try to be more subtle, more seductive. It gets better results. You
used  to  know how, to perfection. But just now when you offered me your--er--collateral for my money you looked as hard as nails. I've seen eyes
like yours above a dueling pistol twenty paces from me and they aren't a pleasant sight. They evoke no ardor in the male breast. That's no way to
handle men, my dear. You are forgetting your early training."

"I don't need you to tell me how to behave," she said and wearily put on her bonnet. She wondered how he could jest so blithely with a rope about
his  neck and her pitiful circumstances before him. She did not even notice that his hands were jammed in his pockets in hard fists as if he were
straining at his own impotence.

"Cheer  up,"  he  said, as she tied the bonnet strings. "You can come to my hanging and it will make you feel lots better. It'll even up all your
old scores with me--even this one. And I'll mention you in my will."

"Thank you, but they may not hang you till it's too late to pay the taxes," she said with a sudden malice that matched his own, and she meant it.



CHAPTER XXXV


It  was  raining when she came out of the building and the sky was a dull putty color. The soldiers on the square had taken shelter in their huts
and the streets were deserted. There was no vehicle in sight and she knew she would have to walk the long way home.

The  brandy  glow  faded  as she trudged along. The cold wind made her shiver and the chilly needle-like drops drove hard into her face. The rain
quickly  penetrated  Aunt  Pitty's  thin cloak until it hung in clammy folds about her. She knew the velvet dress was being ruined and as for the
tail  feathers  on  the  bonnet, they were as drooping and draggled as when their former owner had worn them about the wet barn yard of Tara. The
bricks  of  the sidewalk were broken and, for long stretches, completely gone. In these spots the mud was ankle deep and her slippers stuck in it
as if it were glue, even coming completely off her feet. Every time she bent over to retrieve them, the hem of the dress fell in the mud. She did
not  even  try  to avoid puddles but stepped dully into them, dragging her heavy skirts after her. She could feel her wet petticoat and pantalets
cold  about  her  ankles,  but  she  was  beyond  caring  about  the  wreck  of the costume on which she had gambled so much. She was chilled and
disheartened and desperate.

How  could she ever go back to Tara and face them after her brave words? How could she tell them they must all go--somewhere? How could she leave
it all, the red fields, the tall pines, the dark swampy bottom lands, the quiet burying ground where Ellen lay in the cedars' deep shade?

Hatred  of  Rhett  burned in her heart as she plodded along the slippery way. What a blackguard he was! She hoped they did hang him, so she would
never  have  to  face him again with his knowledge of her disgrace and her humiliation. Of course, he could have gotten the money for her if he'd
wanted  to get it. Oh, hanging was too good for him! Thank God, he couldn't see her now, with her clothes soaking wet and her hair straggling and
her teeth chattering. How hideous she must look and how he would laugh!

The  negroes  she  passed turned insolent grins at her and laughed among themselves as she hurried by, slipping and sliding in the mud, stopping,
panting  to  replace  her slippers. How dared they laugh, the black apes! How dared they grin at her, Scarlett O'Hara of Tara! She'd like to have
them all whipped until the blood ran down their backs. What devils the Yankees were to set them free, free to jeer at white people!

As  she walked down Washington Street, the landscape was as dreary as her own heart. Here there was none of the bustle and cheerfulness which she
had  noted  on  Peachtree  Street. Here many handsome homes had once stood, but few of them had been rebuilt. Smoked foundations and the lonesone
blackened  chimneys,  now known as "Sherman's Sentinels," appeared with disheartening frequency. Overgrown paths led to what had been houses--old
lawns  thick with dead weeds, carriage blocks bearing names she knew so well, hitching posts which would never again know the knot of reins. Cold
wind and rain, mud and bare trees, silence and desolation. How wet her feet were and how long the journey home!

She  heard  the splash of hooves behind her and moved farther over on the narrow sidewalk to avoid more mud splotches on Aunt Pittypat's cloak. A
horse  and buggy came slowly up the road and she turned to watch it, determined to beg a ride if the driver was a white person. The rain obscured
her  vision  as  the  buggy came abreast, but she saw the driver peer over the tarpaulin that stretched from the dashboard to his chin. There was
something  familiar  about his face and as she stepped out into the road to get a closer view, there was an embarrassed little cough from the man
and a well-known voice cried in accents of pleasure and astonishment: "Surely, it can't be Miss Scarlett!"

"Oh,  Mr. Kennedy!" she cried, splashing across the road and leaning on the muddy wheel, heedless of further damage to the cloak. "I was never so
glad to see anybody in my life!"

He  colored  with  pleasure at the obvious sincerity of her words, hastily squirted a stream of tobacco juice from the opposite side of the buggy
and leaped spryly to the ground. He shook her hand enthusiastically and holding up the tarpaulin, assisted her into the buggy.

"Miss  Scarlett,  what  are  you doing over in this section by yourself? Don't you know it's dangerous these days? And you are soaking wet. Here,
wrap the robe around your feet."

As  he  fussed  over  her,  clucking  like a hen, she gave herself up to the luxury of being taken care of. It was nice to have a man fussing and
clucking  and scolding, even if it was only that old maid in pants, Frank Kennedy. It was especially soothing after Rhett's brutal treatment. And
oh,  how  good  to see a County face when she was so far from home! He was well dressed, she noticed, and the buggy was new too. The horse looked
young  and  well  fed,  but Frank looked far older than his years, older than on that Christmas eve when he had been at Tara with his men. He was
thin  and  sallow  faced  and  his yellow eyes were watery and sunken in creases of loose flesh. His ginger-colored beard was scantier than ever,
streaked  with  tobacco  juice  and as ragged as if he clawed at it incessantly. But he looked bright and cheerful, in contrast with the lines of
sorrow and worry and weariness which Scarlett saw in faces everywhere.

"It's  a  pleasure to see you," said Frank warmly. "I didn't know you were in town. I saw Miss Pittypat only last week and she didn't tell me you
were coming. Did--er--ahem--did anyone else come up from Tara with you?"

He was thinking of Suellen, the silly old fool.

"No,"  she  said,  wrapping  the  warm  lap  robe about her and trying to pull it up around her neck. "I came alone. I didn't give Aunt Pitty any
warning."

He chirruped to the horse and it plodded off, picking its way carefully down the slick road.

"All the folks at Tara well?"

"Oh, yes, so-so."

She must think of something to talk about, yet it was so hard to talk. Her mind was leaden with defeat and all she wanted was to lie back in this
warm  blanket  and  say  to  herself:  "I won't think of Tara now. I'll think of it later, when it won't hurt so much." If she could just get him
started  talking  on some subject which would hold him all the way home, so she would have nothing to do but murmur "How nice" and "You certainly
are smart" at intervals.

"Mr.  Kennedy,  I'm  so  surprised  to  see you. I know I've been a bad girl, not keeping up with old friends, but I didn't know you were here in
Atlanta. I thought somebody told me you were in Marietta."

"I  do  business  in  Marietta, a lot of business," he said. "Didn't Miss Suellen tell you I had settled in Atlanta? Didn't she tell you about my
store?"

Vaguely  she  had  a  memory  of  Suellen  chattering  about Frank and a store but she never paid much heed to anything Suellen said. It had been
sufficient to know that Frank was alive and would some day take Suellen off her hands.

"No, not a word," she lied. "Have you a store? How smart you must be!"

He looked a little hurt at hearing that Suellen had not published the news but brightened at the flattery.

"Yes, I've got a store, and a pretty good one I think. Folks tell me I'm a born merchant."

He laughed pleasedly, the tittery cackling laugh which she always found so annoying.

Conceited old fool, she thought.

"Oh,  you  could  be a success at anything you turned your hand to, Mr. Kennedy. But how on earth did you ever get started with the store? When I
saw you Christmas before last you said you didn't have a cent in the world."

He cleared his throat raspingly, clawed at his whiskers and smiled his nervous timid smile.

"Well, it's a long story, Miss Scarlett."

Thank the Lord! she thought. Perhaps it will hold him till we get home. And aloud: "Do tell!"

"You  recall when we came to Tara last, hunting for supplies? Well, not long after that I went into active service. I mean real fighting. No more
commissary for me. There wasn't much need for a commissary, Miss Scarlett, because we couldn't hardly pick up a thing for the army, and I thought
the  place for an able-bodied man was in the fighting line. Well, I fought along with the cavalry for a spell till I got a minie ball through the
shoulder."

He looked very proud and Scarlett said: "How dreadful!"

"Oh,  it  wasn't  so  bad,  just  a flesh wound," he said deprecatingly. "I was sent down south to a hospital and when I was just about well, the
Yankee  raiders  came through. My, my, but that was a hot time! We didn't have much warning and all of us who could walk helped haul out the army
stores and the hospital equipment to the train tracks to move it. We'd gotten one train about loaded when the Yankees rode in one end of town and
out  we  went the other end as fast as we could go. My, my, that was a mighty sad sight, sitting on top of that train and seeing the Yankees burn
those  supplies  we  had  to leave at the depot. Miss Scarlett, they burned about a half-mile of stuff we had piled up there along the tracks. We
just did get away ourselves."

"How dreadful!"

"Yes,  that's  the  word.  Dreadful.  Our men had come back into Atlanta then and so our train was sent here. Well, Miss Scarlett, it wasn't long
before  the  war was over and--well, there was a lot of china and cots and mattresses and blankets and nobody claiming them. I suppose rightfully
they belonged to the Yankees. I think those were the terms of the surrender, weren't they?"

"Um," said Scarlett absently. She was getting warmer now and a little drowsy.

"I don't know till now if I did right," he said, a little querulously. "But the way I figured it, all that stuff wouldn't do the Yankees a bit of
good.  They'd  probably  burn it. And our folks had paid good solid money for it, and I thought it still ought to belong to the Confederacy or to
the Confederates. Do you see what I mean?"

"Um."

"I'm glad you agree with me, Miss Scarlett. In a way, it's been on my conscience. Lots of folks have told me: 'Oh, forget about it, Frank,' but I
can't. I couldn't hold up my head if I thought I'd done what wasn't right. Do you think I did right?"

"Of  course,"  she  said,  wondering  what the old fool had been talking about. Some struggle with his conscience. When a man got as old as Frank
Kennedy he ought to have learned not to bother about things that didn't matter. But he always was so nervous and fussy and old maidish.

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say it. After the surrender I had about ten dollars in silver and nothing else in the world. You know what they did to
Jonesboro  and  my  house  and  store there. I just didn't know what to do. But I used the ten dollars to put a roof on an old store down by Five
Points  and  I  moved  the  hospital  equipment  in and started selling it. Everybody needed beds and china and mattresses and I sold them cheap,
because I figured it was about as much other folks' stuff as it was mine. But I cleared money on it and bought some more stuff and the store just
went along fine. I think I'll make a lot of money on it if things pick up."

At the word "money," her mind came back to him, crystal clear.

"You say you've made money?"

He  visibly expanded under her interest. Few women except Suellen had ever given him more than perfunctory courtesy and it was very flattering to
have a former belle like Scarlett hanging on his words. He slowed the horse so they would not reach home before he had finished his story.

"I'm  not  a  millionaire, Miss Scarlett, and considering the money I used to have, what I've got now sounds small. But I made a thousand dollars
this  year.  Of  course,  five hundred of it went to paying for new stock and repairing the store and paying the rent. But I've made five hundred
clear and as things are certainly picking up, I ought to clear two thousand next year. I can sure use it, too, for you see, I've got another iron
in the fire."

Interest had sprung up sharply in her at the talk of money. She veiled her eyes with thick bristly lashes and moved a little closer to him.

"What does that mean, Mr. Kennedy?"

He laughed and slapped the reins against the horse's back.

"I guess I'm boring you, talking about business, Miss Scarlett. A pretty little woman like you doesn't need to know anything about business."

The old fool.

"Oh, I know I'm a goose about business but I'm so interested! Please tell me all about it and you can explain what I don't understand."

"Well, my other iron is a sawmill."

"A what?"

"A mill to cut up lumber and plane it. I haven't bought it yet but I'm going to. There's a man named Johnson who has one, way out Peachtree road,
and  he's anxious to sell it. He needs some cash right away, so he wants to sell and stay and run it for me at a weekly wage. It's one of the few
mills  in  this  section, Miss Scarlett. The Yankees destroyed most of them. And anyone who owns a sawmill owns a gold mine, for nowadays you can
ask  your own price for lumber. The Yankees burned so many houses here and there aren't enough for people to live in and it looks like folks have
gone  crazy  about  rebuilding. They can t get enough lumber and they can't get it fast enough. People are just pouring into Atlanta now, all the
folks  from  the country districts who can't make a go of farming without darkies and the Yankees and Carpetbaggers who are swarming in trying to
pick  our  bones  a  little  barer  than they already are. I tell you Atlanta's going to be a big town soon. They've got to have lumber for their
houses,  so  I'm going to buy this mill just as soon as--well, as soon as some of the bills owing me are paid. By this time next year, I ought to
be breathing easier about money. I--I guess you know why I'm so anxious to make money quickly, don't you?"

He blushed and cackled again. He's thinking of Suellen, Scarlett thought in disgust.

For  a  moment  she considered asking him to lend her three hundred dollars, but wearily she rejected the idea. He would be embarrassed; he would
stammer;  he  would  offer  excuses, but he wouldn't lend it to her. He had worked hard for it, so he could marry Suellen in the spring and if he
parted  with  it,  his  wedding  would  be postponed indefinitely. Even if she worked on his sympathies and his duty toward his future family and
gained  his  promise  of  a  loan,  she  knew Suellen would never permit it. Suellen was getting more and more worried over the fact that she was
practically an old maid and she would move heaven and earth to prevent anything from delaying her marriage.

What was there in that whining complaining girl to make this old fool so anxious to give her a soft nest? Suellen didn't deserve a loving husband
and the profits of a store and a sawmill. The minute Sue got her hands on a little money she'd give herself unendurable airs and never contribute
one  cent toward the upkeep of Tara. Not Suellen! She'd think herself well out of it and not care if Tara went for taxes or burned to the ground,
so long as she had pretty clothes and a "Mrs." in front of her name.

As Scarlett thought of Suellen's secure future and the precarious one of herself and Tara, anger flamed in her at the unfairness of life. Hastily
she  looked  out  of the buggy into the muddy street, lest Frank should see her expression. She was going to lose everything she had, while Sue--
Suddenly a determination was born in her.

Suellen should not have Frank and his store and his mill!

Suellen  didn't  deserve  them. She was going to have them herself. She thought of Tara and remembered Jonas Wilkerson, venomous as a rattler, at
the  foot  of  the front steps, and she grasped at the last straw floating above the shipwreck of her life. Rhett had failed her but the Lord had
provided Frank.

But  can  I  get  him?  Her fingers clenched as she looked unseeingly into the rain. Can I make him forget Sue and propose to me real quick? If I
could  make  Rhett  almost propose, I know I could get Frank! Her eyes went over him, her lids flickering. Certainly, he's no beauty, she thought
coolly,  and  he's  got  very  bad teeth and his breath smells bad and he's old enough to be my father. Moreover, he's nervous and timid and well
meaning,  and  I  don't know of any more damning qualities a man can have. But at least, he's a gentleman and I believe I could stand living with
him better than with Rhett. Certainly I could manage him easier. At any rate, beggars can't be choosers.

That he was Suellen's fiance caused her no qualm of conscience. After the complete moral collapse which had sent her to Atlanta and to Rhett, the
appropriation of her sister's betrothed seemed a minor affair and one not to be bothered with at this time.

With  the  rousing  of  fresh hope, her spine stiffened and she forgot that her feet were wet and cold. She looked at Frank so steadily, her eyes
narrowing,  that  he  became  somewhat  alarmed  and  she dropped her gaze swiftly, remembering Rhett's words: "I've seen eyes like yours above a
dueling pistol. . . . They evoke no ardor in the male breast."

"What's the matter, Miss Scarlett? You got a chill?"

"Yes,"  she answered helplessly. "Would you mind--" She hesitated timidly. "Would you mind if I put my hand in your coat pocket? It's so cold and
my muff is soaked through."

"Why--why--of course not! And you haven't any gloves! My, my, what a brute I've been idling along like this, talking my head off when you must be
freezing  and wanting to get to a fire. Giddap, Sally! By the way, Miss Scarlett, I've been so busy talking about myself I haven't even asked you
what you were doing in this section in this weather?"

"I was at the Yankee headquarters," she answered before she thought. His sandy brows went up in astonishment.

"But Miss Scarlett! The soldiers-- Why--"

"Mary,  Mother  of  God,  let  me think of a real good lie," she prayed hastily. It would never do for Frank to suspect she had seen Rhett. Frank
thought Rhett the blackest of blackguards and unsafe for decent women to speak to.

"I went there--I went there to see if--if any of the officers would buy fancy work from me to send home to their wives. I embroider very nicely."

He sank back against the seat aghast, indignation struggling with bewilderment.

"You went to the Yankees-- But Miss Scarlett! You shouldn't. Why--why . . . Surely your father doesn't know! Surely, Miss Pittypat--"

"Oh,  I  shall  die  if  you tell Aunt Pittypat!" she cried in real anxiety and burst into tears. It was easy to cry, because she was so cold and
miserable,  but  the effect was startling. Frank could not have been more embarrassed or helpless if she had suddenly begun disrobing. He clicked
his  tongue  against his teeth several times, muttering "My! My!" and made futile gestures at her. A daring thought went through his mind that he
should  draw  her head onto his shoulder and pat her but he had never done this to any woman and hardly knew how to go about it. Scarlett O'Hara,
so  high spirited and pretty, crying here in his buggy. Scarlett O'Hara, the proudest of the proud, trying to sell needlework to the Yankees. His
heart burned.

She  sobbed  on,  saying  a few words now and then, and he gathered that all was not well at Tara. Mr. O'Hara was still "not himself at all," and
there  wasn't  enough  food  to go around for so many. So she had to come to Atlanta to try to make a little money for herself and her boy. Frank
clicked  his  tongue  again  and  suddenly  he found that her head was on his shoulder. He did not quite know how it got there. Surely he had not
placed  it  there,  but  there her head was and there was Scarlett helplessly sobbing against his thin chest, an exciting and novel sensation for
him.  He patted her shoulder timidly, gingerly at first, and when she did not rebuff him he became bolder and patted her firmly. What a helpless,
sweet,  womanly  little  thing she was. And how brave and silly to try her hand at making money by her needle. But dealing with the Yankees--that
was too much.

"I  won't  tell  Miss  Pittypat,  but  you  must promise me, Miss Scarlett, that you won't do anything like this again. The idea of your father's
daughter--"

Her wet green eyes sought his helplessly.

"But, Mr. Kennedy, I must do something. I must take care of my poor little boy and there is no one to look after us now."

"You are a brave little woman," he pronounced, "but I won't have you do this sort of thing. Your family would die of shame."

"Then what will I do?" The swimming eyes looked up to him as if she knew he knew everything and was hanging on his words.

"Well, I don't know right now. But I'll think of something."

"Oh, I know you will! You are so smart--Frank."

She had never called him by his first name before and the sound came to him as a pleasant shock and surprise. The poor girl was probably so upset
she  didn't  even  notice  her  slip.  He felt very kindly toward her and very protecting. If there was anything he could do for Suellen O'Hara's
sister,  he  would  certainly  do  it.  He  pulled out a red bandanna handkerchief and handed it to her and she wiped her eyes and began to smile
tremulously.

"I'm such a silly little goose," she said apologetically. "Please forgive me."

"You  aren't  a  silly little goose. You're a very brave little woman and you are trying to carry to heavy a load. I'm afraid Miss Pittypat isn't
going  to  be  much  help to you. I hear she lost most of her property and Mr. Henry Hamilton's in bad shape himself. I only wish I had a home to
offer  you  shelter in. But, Miss Scarlett, you just remember this, when Miss Suellen and I are married, there'll always be a place for you under
our roof and for Wade Hampton too."

Now was the time! Surely the saints and angels watched over her to give her such a Heaven-sent opportunity. She managed to look very startled and
embarrassed and opened her mouth as if to speak quickly and then shut it with a pop.

"Don't tell me you didn't know I was to be your brother-in-law this spring," he said with nervous jocularity.

And then, seeing her eyes fill up with tears, he questioned in alarm: "What's the matter? Miss Sue's not ill, is she?"

"Oh, no! No!"

"There is something wrong. You must tell me."

"Oh, I can't! I didn't know! I thought surely she must have written you-- Oh, how mean!"

"Miss Scarlett, what is it?"

"Oh, Frank, I didn't mean to let it out but I thought, of course, you knew--that she had written you--"

"Written me what?" He was trembling.

"Oh, to do this to a fine man like you!"

"What's she done?"

"She didn't write you? Oh, I guess she was too ashamed to write you. She should be ashamed! Oh, to have such a mean sister!"

By this time, Frank could not even get questions to his lips. He sat staring at her, gray faced, the reins slack in his hands.

"She's  going  to  marry Tony Fontaine next month. Oh, I'm so sorry, Frank. So sorry to be the one to tell you. She just got tired of waiting and
she was afraid she'd be an old maid."



Mammy  was  standing on the front porch when Frank helped Scarlett out of the buggy. She had evidently been standing there for some time, for her
head  rag  was damp and the old shawl clutched tightly about her showed rain spots. Her wrinkled black face was a study in anger and apprehension
and her lip was pushed out farther than Scarlett could ever remember. She peered quickly at Frank and, when she saw who it was, her face changed-
-pleasure,  bewilderment  and  something  akin  to  guilt  spreading over it. She waddled forward to Frank with pleased greetings and grinned and
curtsied when he shook her hand.

"It sho is good ter see home folks," she said. "How is you, Mist' Frank? My, ain' you lookin' fine an' gran'! Effen Ah'd knowed Miss Scarlett wuz
out  wid you, Ah wouldn' worrit so. Ah'd knowed she wuz tekken keer of. Ah come back hyah an' fine she gone an' Ah been as 'stracted as a chicken
wid  its  haid  off, thinkin' she runnin' roun' dis town by herseff wid all dese trashy free issue niggers on de street. Huccome you din' tell me
you gwine out, honey? An' you wid a cole!"

Scarlett  winked  slyly  at  Frank  and, for all his distress at the bad news he had just heard, he smiled, knowing she was enjoining silence and
making him one in a pleasant conspiracy.

"You run up and fix me some dry clothes, Mammy," she said. "And some hot tea."

"Lawd,  yo'  new dress is plum ruint," grumbled Mammy. "Ah gwine have a time dryin' it an' brushin' it, so it'll be fit ter be wo' ter de weddin'
ternight."

She  went into the house and Scarlett leaned close to Frank and whispered: "Do come to supper tonight. We are so lonesome. And we're going to the
wedding afterward. Do be our escort! And, please don't say anything to Aunt Pitty about--about Suellen. It would distress her so much and I can't
bear for her to know that my sister--"

"Oh, I won't! I won't!" Frank said hastily, wincing from the very thought.

"You've  been  so  sweet  to  me  today and done me so much good. I feel right brave again." She squeezed his hand in parting and turned the full
battery of her eyes upon him.

Mammy, who was waiting just inside the door, gave her an inscrutable look and followed her, puffing, up the stairs to the bedroom. She was silent
while she stripped off the wet clothes and hung them over chairs and tucked Scarlett into bed. When she had brought up a cup of hot tea and a hot
brick,  rolled  in  flannel,  she looked down at Scarlett and said, with the nearest approach to an apology in her voice Scarlett had ever heard:
"Lamb,  huccome  you din' tell yo' own Mammy whut you wuz upter? Den Ah wouldn' had ter traipse all dis way up hyah ter 'Lanta. Ah is too ole an'
too fat fer sech runnin' roun'."

"What do you mean?"

"Honey,  you kain fool me. Ah knows you. An' Ah seed Mist' Frank's face jes' now an' Ah seed yo' face, an' Ah kin read yo' mine lak a pahson read
a  Bible. An' Ah heerd dat whisperin' you wuz givin' him 'bout Miss Suellen. Effen Ah'd had a notion 'twuz Mist' Frank you wuz affer, Ah'd stayed
home whar Ah b'longs."

"Well,"  said Scarlett shortly, snuggling under the blankets and realizing it was useless to try to throw Mammy off the scent, "who did you think
it was?"

"Chile,  Ah  din' know but Ah din' lak de look on yo' face yestiddy. An' Ah 'membered Miss Pittypat writin' Miss Melly dat dat rapscallion Butler
man had lots of money an' Ah doan fergit whut Ah hears. But Mist' Frank, he a gempmum even ef he ain' so pretty."

Scarlett gave her a sharp look and Mammy returned the gaze with calm omniscience.

"Well, what are you going to do about it? Tattle to Suellen?"

"Ah is gwine ter he'p you pleasure Mist' Frank eve'y way Ah knows how," said Mammy, tucking the covers about Scarlett's neck.

Scarlett  lay  quietly  for  a  while,  as  Mammy  fussed  about  the room, relief flooding her that there was no need for words between them. No
explanations  were  asked,  no  reproaches made. Mammy understood and was silent. In Mammy, Scarlett had found a realist more uncompromising than
herself. The mottled wise old eyes saw deeply, saw clearly, with the directness of the savage and the child, undeterred by conscience when danger
threatened her pet. Scarlett was her baby and what her baby wanted, even though it belonged to another, Mammy was willing to help her obtain. The
rights  of Suellen and Frank Kennedy did not even enter her mind, save to cause a grim inward chuckle. Scarlett was in trouble and doing the best
she could, and Scarlett was Miss Ellen's child. Mammy rallied to her with never a moment's hesitation.

Scarlett  felt  the silent reinforcement and, as the hot brick at her feet warmed her, the hope which had flickered faintly on the cold ride home
grew  into  a  flame.  It swept through her, making her heart pump the blood through her veins in pounding surges. Strength was coming back and a
reckless excitement which made her want to laugh aloud. Not beaten yet, she thought exultantly.

"Hand me the mirror, Mammy," she said.

"Keep yo' shoulders unner dat kivver," ordered Mammy, passing the hand mirror to her, a smile on her thick lips.

Scarlett looked at herself.

"I look white as a hant," she said, "and my hair is as wild as a horse's tail."

"You doan look peart as you mout."

"Hum. . . . Is it raining very hard?"

"You know it's po'in'."

"Well, just the same, you've got to go downtown for me."

"Not in dis rain, Ah ain'."

"Yes, you are or I'll go myself."

"Whut you got ter do dat woan wait? Look ter me lak you done nuff fer one day."

"I  want,"  said Scarlett, surveying herself carefully in the mirror, "a bottle of cologne water. You can wash my hair and rinse it with cologne.
And buy me a jar of quince-seed jelly to make it lie down flat."

"Ah  ain'  gwine wash yo' ha'r in dis wedder an' you ain' gwine put no cologne on yo' haid lak a fas' woman needer. Not w'ile Ah got breaf in mah
body."

"Oh, yes, I am. Look in my purse and get that five-dollar gold piece out and go to town. And--er, Mammy, while you are downtown, you might get me
a--a pot of rouge."

"Whut dat?" asked Mammy suspiciously.

Scarlett met her eyes with a coldness she was far from feeling. There was never any way of knowing just how far Mammy could be bullied.

"Never you mind. Just ask for it."

"Ah ain' buyin nuthin' dat Ah doan know whut 'tis."

"Well, it's paint, if you're so curious! Face paint. Don't stand there and swell up like a toad. Go on."

"Paint!"  ejaculated Mammy. "Face paint! Well, you ain' so big dat Ah kain whup you! Ah ain' never been so scan'lized! You is los' yo' mine! Miss
Ellen be tuhnin' in her grabe dis minute! Paintin' yo face lak a--"

"You know very well Grandma Robillard painted her face and--"

"Yas'm,  an'  wo' only one petticoat an' it wrang out wid water ter mek it stick an' show de shape of her laigs, but dat ain' sayin' you is gwine
do sumpin' lak dat! Times wuz scan'lous w'en Ole Miss wuz young but times changes, dey do an'--"

"Name of God!" cried Scarlett, losing her temper and throwing back the covers. "You can go straight back to Tara!"

"You  kain  sen'  me ter Tara ness Ah wants ter go. Ah is free," said Mammy heatedly. "An' Ah is gwine ter stay right hyah. Git back in dat baid.
Does  you  want  ter  ketch pneumony jes' now? Put down dem stays! Put dem down, honey. Now, Miss Scarlett, you ain' gwine nowhars in dis wedder.
Lawd  God!  But  you  sho look lak yo' pa! Git back in baid--Ah kain go buyin' no paint! Ah die of shame, eve'ybody knowin 'it wud fer mah chile!
Miss Scarlett, you is so sweet an' pretty lookin' you doan need no paint. Honey, doan nobody but bad womens use dat stuff."

"Well, they get results, don't they?"

"Jesus,  hear her! Lamb, doan say bad things lak dat! Put down dem wet stockin's, honey. Ah kain have you buy dat stuff yo'seff. Miss Ellen would
hant me. Git back in baid. Ah'll go. Maybe Ah fine me a sto' whar dey doan know us."



That  night at Mrs. Elsing's, when Fanny had been duly married and old Levi and the other musicians were tuning up for the dance, Scarlett looked
about  her with gladness. It was so exciting to be actually at a party again. She was pleased also with the warm reception she had received. When
she  entered  the house on Frank's arm, everyone had rushed to her with cries of pleasure and welcome, kissed her, shaken her hand, told her they
had  missed  her  dreadfully  and that she must never go back to Tara. The men seemed gallantly to have forgotten she had tried her best to break
their  hearts  in other days and the girls that she had done everything in her power to entice their beaux away from them. Even Mrs. Merriwether,
Mrs. Whiting, Mrs. Meade and the other dowagers who had been so cool to her during the last days of the war, forgot her flighty conduct and their
disapproval  of  it and recalled only that she had suffered in their common defeat and that she was Pitty's niece and Charles' widow. They kissed
her  and  spoke gently with tears in their eyes of her dear mother's passing and asked at length about her father and her sisters. Everyone asked
about Melanie and Ashley, demanding the reason why they, too, had not come back to Atlanta.

In  spite of her pleasure at the welcome, Scarlett felt a slight uneasiness which she tried to conceal, an uneasiness about the appearance of her
velvet  dress.  It  was  still damp to the knees and still spotted about the hem, despite the frantic efforts of Mammy and Cookie with a steaming
kettle,  a  clean  hair  brush  and  frantic  wavings in front of an open fire. Scarlett was afraid someone would notice her bedraggled state and
realize  that  this  was  her only nice dress. She was a little cheered by the fact that many of the dresses of the other guests looked far worse
than  hers. They were so old and had such carefully mended and pressed looks. At least, her dress was whole and new, damp though it was--in fact,
the only new dress at the gathering with the exception of Fanny's white-satin wedding gown.

Remembering  what  Aunt  Pitty had told her about the Elsing finances, she wondered where the money for the satin dress had been obtained and for
the  refreshments  and decorations and musicians too. It must have cost a pretty penny. Borrowed money probably or else the whole Elsing clan had
contributed  to  give  Fanny  this  expensive  wedding.  Such  a wedding in these hard times seemed to Scarlett an extravagance on a par with the
tombstones  of  the Tarleton boys and she felt the same irritation and lack of sympathy she had felt as she stood in the Tarleton burying ground.
The  days when money could be thrown away carelessly had passed. Why did these people persist in making the gestures of the old days when the old
days were gone?

But  she  shrugged  off  her  momentary  annoyance. It wasn't her money and she didn't want her evening's pleasure spoiled by irritation at other
people's foolishness.

She  discovered  she  knew  the groom quite well, for he was Tommy Wellburn from Sparta and she had nursed him in 1863 when he had a wound in his
shoulder. He had been a handsome young six-footer then and had given up his medical studies to go in the cavalry. Now he looked like a little old
man,  so bent was he by the wound in his hip. He walked with some difficulty and, as Aunt Pitty had remarked, spraddled in a very vulgar way. But
he  seemed  totally  unaware of his appearance, or unconcerned about it, and had the manner of one who asks no odds from any man. He had given up
all  hope  of continuing his medical studies and was now a contractor, working a labor crew of Irishmen who were building the new hotel. Scarlett
wondered  how  he  managed  so  onerous  a  job  in  his condition but asked no questions, realizing wryly that almost anything was possible when
necessity drove.

Tommy  and  Hugh Elsing and the little monkey-like Rene Picard stood talking with her while the chairs and furniture were pushed back to the wall
in  preparation for the dancing. Hugh had not changed since Scarlett last saw him in 1862. He was still the thin sensitive boy with the same lock
of  pale brown hair hanging over his forehead and the same delicate useless-looking hands she remembered so well. But Rene had changed since that
furlough  when he married Maybelle Merriwether. He still had the Gallic twinkle in his black eyes and the Creole zest for living but, for all his
easy  laughter,  there  was  something  hard  about  his  face which had not been there in the early days of the war. And the air of supercilious
elegance which had clung about him in his striking Zouave uniform was completely gone.

"Cheeks  lak  ze  rose,  eyes lak ze emerald!" he said, kissing Scarlett's hand and paying tribute to the rouge upon her face. "Pretty lak w'en I
first  see  you  at  ze  bazaar.  You remembaire? Nevaire have I forgot how you toss your wedding ring in my basket. Ha, but zat was brave! But I
should nevaire have zink you wait so long to get anothaire ring!"

His eyes sparkled wickedly and he dug his elbow into Hugh's ribs.

"And I never thought you'd be driving a pie wagon, Renny Picard," she said. Instead of being ashamed at having his degrading occupation thrown in
his face, he seemed pleased and laughed uproariously, slapping Hugh on the back.

"Touche!"  he  cried.  "Belle  Mere,  Madame  Merriwether, she mek me do eet, ze first work I do en all my life, Rene Picard, who was to grow old
breeding  ze race horse, playing ze feedle! Now, I drive ze pie wagon and I lak eet! Madame Belle Mere, she can mek a man do annyzing. She should
have been ze general and we win ze war, eh, Tommy?"

Well! thought Scarlett. The idea of liking to drive a pie wagon when his people used to own ten miles along the Mississippi River and a big house
in New Orleans, too!

"If  we'd had our mothers-in-law in the ranks, we'd have beat the Yankees in a week," agreed Tommy, his eyes straying to the slender, indomitable
form of his new mother-in-law. "The only reason we lasted as long as we did was because of the ladies behind us who wouldn't give up."

"Who'll  NEVER  give up," amended Hugh, and his smile was proud but a little wry. "There's not a lady here tonight who has surrendered, no matter
what her men folks did at Appomattox. It's a lot worse on them than it ever was on us. At least, we took it out in fighting."

"And  they  in  hating,"  finished  Tommy.  "Eh,  Scarlett? It bothers the ladies to see what their men folks have come down to lots more than it
bothers us. Hugh was to be a judge, Rene was to play the fiddle before the crowned heads of Europe--" He ducked as Rene aimed a blow at him. "And
I was to be a doctor and now--"

"Geeve  us ze time!" cried Rene. "Zen I become ze Pie Prince of ze South! And my good Hugh ze King of ze Kindling and you, my Tommy, you weel own
ze  Irish  slaves  instead  of ze darky slaves. What changes--what fun! And what eet do for you, Mees Scarlett, and Mees Melly? You meelk ze cow,
peek ze cotton?"

"Indeed, no!" said Scarlett coolly, unable to understand Rene's gay acceptance of hardships. "Our darkies do that."

"Mees Melly, I hear she call her boy 'Beauregard.' You tell her I, Rene, approve and say that except for 'Jesus' there is no bettaire name."

And though he smiled, his eyes glowed proudly at the name of Louisiana's dashing hero.

"Well, there's 'Robert Edward Lee,'" observed Tommy. "And while I'm not trying to lessen Old Beau's reputation, my first son is going to be named
'Bob Lee Wellburn.'"

Rend laughed and shrugged.

"I recount to you a joke but eet eez a true story. And you see how Creoles zink of our brave Beauregard and of your General Lee. On ze train near
New Orleans a man of Virginia, a man of General Lee, he meet wiz a Creole of ze troops of Beauregard. And ze man of Virginia, he talk, talk, talk
how  General  Lee  do  zis, General Lee say zat. And ze Creole, he look polite and he wreenkle hees forehead lak he try to remembaire, and zen he
smile and say: 'General Lee! Ah, oui! Now I know! General Lee! Ze man General Beauregard speak well of!'"

Scarlett  tried  to  join  politely  in  the  laughter  but  she  did not see any point to the story except that Creoles were just as stuck up as
Charleston and Savannah people. Moreover, she had always thought Ashley's son should have been named after him.

The musicians after preliminary tunings and whangings broke into "Old Dan Tucker" and Tommy turned to her.

"Will you dance, Scarlett? I can't favor you but Hugh or Rene--"

"No, thank you. I'm still mourning my mother," said Scarlett hastily. "I will sit them out."

Her eyes singled out Frank Kennedy and beckoned him from the side of Mrs. Elsing.

"I'll  sit  in  that  alcove yonder if you'll bring me some refreshments and then we can have a nice chat," she told Frank as the other three men
moved off.

When  he  had hurried away to bring her a glass of wine and a paper thin slice of cake, Scarlett sat down in the alcove at the end of the drawing
room  and carefully arranged her skirts so that the worst spots would not show. The humiliating events of the morning with Rhett were pushed from
her  mind  by the excitement of seeing so many people and hearing music again. Tomorrow she would think of Rhett's conduct and her shame and they
would  make  her  writhe  again.  Tomorrow she would wonder if she had made any impression on Frank's hurt and bewildered heart. But not tonight.
Tonight she was alive to her finger tips, every sense alert with hope, her eyes sparkling.

She  looked  from the alcove into the huge drawing room and watched the dancers, remembering how beautiful this room had been when first she came
to Atlanta during the war. Then the hardwood floors had shone like glass, and overhead the chandelier with its hundreds of tiny prisms had caught
and  reflected  every  ray of the dozens of candles it bore, flinging them, like gleams from diamonds, flame and sapphire about the room. The old
portraits  on  the  walls had been dignified and gracious and had looked down upon guests with an air of mellowed hospitality. The rosewood sofas
had  been  soft  and  inviting  and  one of them, the largest, had stood in the place of honor in this same alcove where she now sat. It had been
Scarlett's favorite seat at parties. From this point stretched the pleasant vista of drawing room and dining room beyond, the oval mahogany table
which  seated  twenty  and the twenty slim-legged chairs demurely against the walls, the massive sideboard and buffet weighted with heavy silver,
with  seven-branched  candlesticks,  goblets,  cruets,  decanters and shining little glasses. Scarlett had sat on that sofa so often in the first
years  of  the  war,  always  with  some  handsome officer beside her, and listened to violin and bull fiddle, accordion and banjo, and heard the
exciting swishing noises which dancing feet made on the waxed and polished floor.

Now  the chandelier hung dark. It was twisted askew and most of the prisms were broken, as if the Yankee occupants had made their beauty a target
for  their  boots.  Now an oil lamp and a few candles lighted the room and the roaring fire in the wide hearth gave most of the illumination. Its
flickering  light showed how irreparably scarred and splintered the dull old floor was. Squares on the faded paper on the wall gave evidence that
once  the  portraits  had hung there, and wide cracks in the plaster recalled the day during the siege when a shell had exploded on the house and
torn  off  parts  of the roof and second floor. The heavy old mahogany table, spread with cake and decanters, still presided in the empty-looking
dining  room  but it was scratched and the broken legs showed signs of clumsy repair. The sideboard, the silver and the spindly chairs were gone.
The  dull-gold  damask  draperies which had covered the arching French windows at the back of the room were missing, and only the remnants of the
lace curtains remained, clean but obviously mended.

In place of the curved sofa she had liked so much was a hard bench that was none too comfortable. She sat upon it with as good grace as possible,
wishing  her skirts were in such condition that she could dance. It would be so good to dance again. But, of course, she could do more with Frank
in  this  sequestered  alcove  than  in  a  breathless  reel  and she could listen fascinated to his talk and encourage him to greater flights of
foolishness.

But  the music certainly was inviting. Her slipper patted longingly in time with old Levi's large splayed foot as he twanged a strident banjo and
called  the  figures  of  the  reel.  Feet swished and scraped and patted as the twin lines danced toward each other, retreated, whirled and made
arches of their arms.


"'Ole Dan Tucker he got drunk--' (Swing yo' padners!) 'Fell in de fiah' an' he kick up a chunk!' (Skip light, ladies!)"


After  the  dull and exhausting months at Tara it was good to hear music again and the sound of dancing feet, good to see familiar friendly faces
laughing  in  the  feeble  light, calling old jokes and catchwords, bantering, rallying, coquetting. It was like coming to life again after being
dead.  It  almost  seemed  that the bright days of five years ago had come back again. If she could close her eyes and not see the worn made-over
dresses  and  the  patched boots and mended slippers, if her mind did not call up the faces of boys missing from the reel, she might almost think
that  nothing  had  changed. But as she looked, watching the old men grouped about the decanter in the dining room, the matrons lining the walls,
talking  behind fanless hands, and the swaying, skipping young dancers, it came to her suddenly, coldly, frighteningly that it was all as greatly
changed as if these familiar figures were ghosts.

They  looked  the  same  but  they  were  different. What was it? Was it only that they were five years older? No, it was something more than the
passing  of time. Something had gone out of them, out of their world. Five years ago, a feeling of security had wrapped them all around so gently
they were not even aware of it. In its shelter they had flowered. Now it was gone and with it had gone the old thrill, the old sense of something
delightful and exciting just around the corner, the old glamor of their way of living.

She knew she had changed too, but not as they had changed, and it puzzled her. She sat and watched them and she felt herself an alien among them,
as alien and lonely as if she had come from another world, speaking a language they did not understand and she not understanding theirs. Then she
knew  that this feeling was the same one she felt with Ashley. With him and with people of his kind--and they made up most of her world--she felt
outside of something she could not understand.

Their  faces  were  little  changed  and  their  manners  not at all but it seemed to her that these two things were all that remained of her old
friends.  An ageless dignity, a timeless gallantry still clung about them and would cling until they died but they would carry undying bitterness
to  their  graves,  a  bitterness  too deep for words. They were a soft-spoken, fierce, tired people who were defeated and would not know defeat,
broken  yet  standing  determinedly  erect.  They were crushed and helpless, citizens of conquered provinces. They were looking on the state they
loved,  seeing  it  trampled  by  the enemy, rascals making a mock of the law, their former slaves a menace, their men disfranchised, their women
insulted. And they were remembering graves.

Everything  in  their old world had changed but the old forms. The old usages went on, must go on, for the forms were all that were left to them.
They  were  holding  tightly  to  the  things  they  knew  best  and loved best in the old days, the leisured manners, the courtesy, the pleasant
casualness  in  human  contacts  and, most of all, the protecting attitude of the men toward their women. True to the tradition in which they had
been  reared,  the  men were courteous and tender and they almost succeeded in creating an atmosphere of sheltering their women from all that was
harsh and unfit for feminine eyes. That, thought Scarlett, was the height of absurdity, for there was little, now, which even the most cloistered
women had not seen and known in the last five years. They had nursed the wounded, closed dying eyes, suffered war and fire and devastation, known
terror and flight and starvation.

But,  no  matter  what sights they had seen, what menial tasks they had done and would have to do, they remained ladies and gentlemen, royalty in
exile--bitter,  aloof,  incurious,  kind  to one another, diamond hard, as bright and brittle as the crystals of the broken chandelier over their
heads.  The  old days had gone but these people would go their ways as if the old days still existed, charming, leisurely, determined not to rush
and scramble for pennies as the Yankees did, determined to part with none of the old ways.

Scarlett  knew  that  she,  too,  was  greatly  changed. Otherwise she could not have done the things she had done since she was last in Atlanta;
otherwise  she  would  not now be contemplating doing what she desperately hoped to do. But there was a difference in their hardness and hers and
just what the difference was, she could not, for the moment, tell. Perhaps it was that there was nothing she would not do, and there were so many
things these people would rather die than do. Perhaps it was that they were without hope but still smiling at life, bowing gracefully and passing
it by. And this Scarlett could not do.

She  could  not ignore life. She had to live it and it was too brutal, too hostile, for her even to try to gloss over its harshness with a smile.
Of  the  sweetness  and  courage  and unyielding pride of her friends, Scarlett saw nothing. She saw only a silly stiff-neckedness which observed
facts but smiled and refused to look them in the face.

As  she stared at the dancers, flushed from the reel, she wondered if things drove them as she was driven, dead lovers, maimed husbands, children
who were hungry, acres slipping away, beloved roofs that sheltered strangers. But, of course, they were driven! She knew their circumstances only
a  little  less  thoroughly  than  she  knew  her own. Their losses had been her losses, their privations her privations, their problems her same
problems.  Yet  they had reacted differently to them. The faces she was seeing in the room were not faces; they were masks, excellent masks which
would never drop.

But  if  they  were  suffering  as  acutely  from  brutal circumstances as she was--and they were--how could they maintain this air of gaiety and
lightness  of  heart? Why, indeed, should they even try to do it? They were beyond her comprehension and vaguely irritating. She couldn't be like
them.  She  couldn't  survey  the  wreck of the world with an air of casual unconcern. She was as hunted as a fox, running with a bursting heart,
trying to reach a burrow before the hounds caught up.

Suddenly  she  hated  them  all  because they were different from her, because they carried their losses with an air that she could never attain,
would  never  wish to attain. She hated them, these smiling, light-footed strangers, these proud fools who took pride in something they had lost,
seeming  to  be  proud that they had lost it. The women bore themselves like ladies and she knew they were ladies, though menial tasks were their
daily  lot  and  they  didn't  know where their next dress was coming from. Ladies all! But she could not feel herself a lady, for all her velvet
dress  and scented hair, for all the pride of birth that stood behind her and the pride of wealth that had once been hers. Harsh contact with the
red  earth  of  Tara had stripped gentility from her and she knew she would never feel like a lady again until her table was weighted with silver
and  crystal and smoking with rich food, until her own horses and carriages stood in her stables, until black hands and not white took the cotton
from Tara.

"Ah!"  she thought angrily, sucking in her breath. "That's the difference! Even though they're poor, they still feel like ladies and I don't. The
silly fools don't seem to realize that you can't be a lady without money!"

Even  in this flash of revelation, she realized vaguely that, foolish though they seemed, theirs was the right attitude. Ellen would have thought
so. This disturbed her. She knew she should feel as these people felt, but she could not. She knew she should believe devoutly, as they did, that
a born lady remained a lady, even if reduced to poverty, but she could not make herself believe it now.

All  her  life  she had heard sneers hurled at the Yankees because their pretensions to gentility were based on wealth, not breeding. But at this
moment,  heresy  though it was, she could not help thinking the Yankees were right on this one matter, even if wrong in all others. It took money
to  be  a lady. She knew Ellen would have fainted had she ever heard such words from her daughter. No depth of poverty could ever have made Ellen
feel  ashamed. Ashamed! Yes, that was how Scarlett felt. Ashamed that she was poor and reduced to galling shifts and penury and work that negroes
should do.

She  shrugged  in  irritation. Perhaps these people were right and she was wrong but, just the same, these proud fools weren't looking forward as
she  was doing, straining every nerve, risking even honor and good name to get back what they had lost. It was beneath the dignity of any of them
to  indulge  in  a  scramble for money. The times were rude and hard. They called for rude and hard struggle if one was to conquer them. Scarlett
knew  that  family tradition would forcibly restrain many of these people from such a struggle--with the making of money admittedly its aim. They
all  thought  that obvious money-making and even talk of money were vulgar in the extreme. Of course, there were exceptions. Mrs. Merriwether and
her  baking and Rene driving the pie wagon. And Hugh Elsing cutting and peddling firewood and Tommy contracting. And Frank having the gumption to
start  a  store. But what of the rank and file of them? The planters would scratch a few acres and live in poverty. The lawyers and doctors would
go back to their professions and wait for clients who might never come. And the rest, those who had lived in leisure on their incomes? What would
happen to them?

But  she  wasn't  going to be poor all her life. She wasn't going to sit down and patiently wait for a miracle to help her. She was going to rush
into life and wrest from it what she could. Her father had started as a poor immigrant boy and had won the broad acres of Tara. What he had done,
his  daughter  could  do. She wasn't like these people who had gambled everything on a Cause that was gone and were content to be proud of having
lost  that Cause, because it was worth any sacrifice. They drew their courage from the past. She was drawing hers from the future. Frank Kennedy,
at  present,  was  her future. At least, he had the store and he had cash money. And if she could only marry him and get her hands on that money,
she could make ends meet at Tara for another year. And after that--Frank must buy the sawmill. She could see for herself how quickly the town was
rebuilding and anyone who could establish a lumber business now, when there was so little competition, would have a gold mine.

There  came  to her, from the recesses of her mind, words Rhett had spoken in the early years of the war about the money he made in the blockade.
She  had  not  taken  the  trouble to understand them then, but now they seemed perfectly clear and she wondered if it had been only her youth or
plain stupidity which had kept her from appreciating them.

"There's just as much money to be made in the wreck of a civilization as in the upbuilding of one."

"This  is  the wreck he foresaw," she thought, "and he was right. There's still plenty of money to be made by anyone who isn't afraid to work--or
to grab."

She  saw Frank coming across the floor toward her with a glass of blackberry wine in his hand and a morsel of cake on a saucer and she pulled her
face  into  a  smile.  It did not occur to her to question whether Tara was worth marrying Frank. She knew it was worth it and she never gave the
matter a second thought.

She  smiled  up at him as she sipped the wine, knowing that her cheeks were more attractively pink than any of the dancers'. She moved her skirts
for  him  to  sit  by her and waved her handkerchief idly so that the faint sweet smell of the cologne could reach his nose. She was proud of the
cologne, for no other woman in the room was wearing any and Frank had noticed it. In a fit of daring he had whispered to her that she was as pink
and fragrant as a rose.

If  only  he  were  not so shy! He reminded her of a timid old brown field rabbit. If only he had the gallantry and ardor of the Tarleton boys or
even  the  coarse  impudence  of Rhett Butler. But, if he possessed those qualities, he'd probably have sense enough to feel the desperation that
lurked  just  beneath  her demurely fluttering eyelids. As it was, he didn't know enough about women even to suspect what she was up to. That was
her good fortune but it did not increase her respect for him.



CHAPTER XXXVI


She  married  Frank Kennedy two weeks later after a whirlwind courtship which she blushingly told him left her too breathless to oppose his ardor
any longer.

He  did  not  know that during those two weeks she had walked the floor at night, gritting her teeth at the slowness with which he took hints and
encouragements,  praying that no untimely letter from Suellen would reach him and ruin her plans. She thanked God that her sister was the poorest
of  correspondents, delighting to receive letters and disliking to write them. But there was always a chance, always a chance, she thought in the
long night hours as she padded back and forth across the cold floor of her bedroom, with Ellen's faded shawl clutched about her nightdress. Frank
did  not  know  she had received a laconic letter from Will, relating that Jonas Wilkerson had paid another call at Tara and, finding her gone to
Atlanta,  had stormed about until Will and Ashley threw him bodily off the place. Will's letter hammered into her mind the fact she knew only too
well--that  time was getting shorter and shorter before the extra taxes must be paid. A fierce desperation drove her as she saw the days slipping
by and she wished she might grasp the hourglass in her hands and keep the sands from running.

But  so well did she conceal her feelings, so well did she enact her role, Frank suspected nothing, saw no more than what lay on the surface--the
pretty  and  helpless  young  widow  of  Charles  Hamilton  who  greeted  him every night in Miss Pittypat's parlor and listened, breathless with
admiration,  as  he  told  of  future  plans  for his store and how much money he expected to make when he was able to buy the sawmill. Her sweet
sympathy  and her bright-eyed interest in every word he uttered were balm upon the wound left by Suellen's supposed defection. His heart was sore
and  bewildered  at  Suellen's  conduct  and his vanity, the shy, touchy vanity of a middle-aged bachelor who knows himself to be unattractive to
women,  was deeply wounded. He could not write Suellen, upbraiding her for her faithlessness; he shrank from the very idea. But he could ease his
heart  by talking about her to Scarlett. Without saying a disloyal word about Suellen, she could tell him she understood how badly her sister had
treated him and what good treatment he merited from a woman who really appreciated him.

Little Mrs. Hamilton was such a pretty pink-cheeked person, alternating between melancholy sighs when she thought of her sad plight, and laughter
as  gay and sweet as the tinkling of tiny silver bells when he made small jokes to cheer her. Her green gown, now neatly cleaned by Mammy, showed
off  her  slender  figure with its tiny waist to perfection, and how bewitching was the faint fragrance which always clung about her handkerchief
and  her  hair! It was a shame that such a fine little woman should be alone and helpless in a world so rough that she didn't even understand its
harshness.  No  husband  nor brother nor even a father now to protect her. Frank thought the world too rude a place for a lone woman and, in that
idea, Scarlett silently and heartily concurred.

He  came  to  call  every  night,  for  the  atmosphere of Pitty's house was pleasant and soothing. Mammy's smile at the front door was the smile
reserved for quality folks, Pitty served him coffee laced with brandy and fluttered about him and Scarlett hung on his every utterance. Sometimes
in the afternoons he took Scarlett riding with him in his buggy when he went out on business. These rides were merry affairs because she asked so
many  foolish  questions--"just like a woman," he told himself approvingly. He couldn't help laughing at her ignorance about business matters and
she laughed too, saying: "Well, of course, you can't expect a silly little woman like me to understand men's affairs."

She  made  him feel, for the first time in his old-maidish life, that he was a strong upstanding man fashioned by God in a nobler mold than other
men, fashioned to protect silly helpless women.

When,  at last, they stood together to be married, her confiding little hand in his and her downcast lashes throwing thick black crescents on her
pink  cheeks,  he  still  did  not know how it all came about. He only knew he had done something romantic and exciting for the first time in his
life. He, Frank Kennedy, had swept this lovely creature off her feet and into his strong arms. That was a heady feeling.

No friend or relative stood up with them at their marriage. The witnesses were strangers called in from the street. Scarlett had insisted on that
and he had given in, though reluctantly, for he would have liked his sister and his brother-in-law from Jonesboro to be with him. And a reception
with  toasts  drunk to the bride in Miss Pitty's parlor amid happy friends would have been a joy to him. But Scarlett would not hear of even Miss
Pitty being present.

"Just  us  two, Frank," she begged, squeezing his arm. "Like an elopement. I always did want to run away and be married! Please, sweetheart, just
for me!"

It was that endearing term, still so new to his ears, and the bright teardrops which edged her pale green eyes as she looked up pleadingly at him
that  won  him  over.  After  all,  a  man had to make some concessions to his bride, especially about the wedding, for women set such a store by
sentimental things.

And before he knew it, he was married.



Frank gave her the three hundred dollars, bewildered by her sweet urgency, reluctant at first, because it meant the end of his hope of buying the
sawmill  immediately.  But  he  could  not  see  her  family  evicted,  and  his disappointment soon faded at the sight of her radiant happiness,
disappeared  entirely  at  the loving way she "took on" over his generosity. Frank had never before had a woman "take on" over him and he came to
feel that the money had been well spent, after all.

Scarlett  dispatched  Mammy  to  Tara  immediately  for the triple purpose of giving Will the money, announcing her marriage and bringing Wade to
Atlanta.  In  two days she had a brief note from Will which she carried about with her and read and reread with mounting joy. Will wrote that the
taxes  had  been  paid  and  Jonas  Wilkerson  "acted up pretty bad" at the news but had made no other threats so far. Will closed by wishing her
happiness,  a  laconic  formal  statement  which  he  qualified in no way. She knew Will understood what she had done and why she had done it and
neither  blamed nor praised. But what must Ashley think? she wondered feverishly. What must he think of me now, after what I said to him so short
a while ago in the orchard at Tara?

She  also  had  a letter from Suellen, poorly spelled, violent, abusive, tear splotched, a letter so full of venom and truthful observations upon
her character that she was never to forget it nor forgive the writer. But even Suellen's words could not dim her happiness that Tara was safe, at
least from immediate danger.

It was hard to realize that Atlanta and not Tara was her permanent home now. In her desperation to obtain the tax money, no thought save Tara and
the  fate  which  threatened it had any place in her mind. Even at the moment of marriage, she had not given a thought to the fact that the price
she was paying for the safety of home was permanent exile from it. Now that the deed was done, she realized this with a wave of homesickness hard
to  dispel. But there it was. She had made her bargain and she intended to stand by it. And she was so grateful to Frank for saving Tara she felt
a warm affection for him and an equally warm determination that he should never regret marrying her.

The  ladies  of Atlanta knew their neighbors' business only slightly less completely than they knew their own and were far more interested in it.
They  all knew that for years Frank Kennedy had had an "understanding" with Suellen O'Hara. In fact, he had said, sheepishly, that he expected to
get  married  in the spring. So the tumult of gossip, surmise and deep suspicion which followed the announcement of his quiet wedding to Scarlett
was  not  surprising.  Mrs. Merriwether, who never let her curiosity go long unsatisfied if she could help it, asked him point-blank just what he
meant  by  marrying  one  sister  when he was betrothed to the other. She reported to Mrs. Elsing that all the answer she got for her pains was a
silly  look.  Not  even  Mrs. Merriwether, doughty soul that she was, dared to approach Scarlett on the subject. Scarlett seemed demure and sweet
enough these days, but there was a pleased complacency in her eyes which annoyed people and she carried a chip on her shoulder which no one cared
to disturb.

She  knew  Atlanta  was talking but she did not care. Alter all, there wasn't anything immoral in marrying a man. Tara was safe. Let people talk.
She  had  too many other matters to occupy her mind. The most important was how to make Frank realize, in a tactful manner, that his store should
bring in more money. After the fright Jonas Wilkerson had given her, she would never rest easy until she and Frank had some money ahead. And even
if  no  emergency developed, Frank would need to make more money, if she was going to save enough for next year's taxes. Moreover, what Frank had
said  about  the  sawmill  stuck in her mind. Frank could make lots of money out of a mill. Anybody could, with lumber selling at such outrageous
prices.  She  fretted  silently  because Frank's money had not been enough to pay the taxes on Tara and buy the mill as well. And she made up her
mind  that  he  had to make more money on the store somehow, and do it quickly, so he could buy that mill before some one else snapped it up. She
could see it was a bargain.

If  she  were  a  man  she  would have that mill, if she had to mortgage the store to raise the money. But, when she intimated this delicately to
Frank,  the  day  after  they married, he smiled and told her not to bother her sweet pretty little head about business matters. It had come as a
surprise  to him that she even knew what a mortgage was and, at first, he was amused. But this amusement quickly passed and a sense of shock took
its  place  in the early days of their marriage. Once, incautiously, he had told her that "people" (he was careful not to mention names) owed him
money  but  could  not pay just now and he was, of course, unwilling to press old friends and gentlefolk. Frank regretted ever mentioning it for,
thereafter,  she  had  questioned  him about it again and again. She had the most charmingly childlike air but she was just curious, she said, to
know  who  owed  him  and  how much they owed. Frank was very evasive about the matter. He coughed nervously and waved his hands and repeated his
annoying remark about her sweet pretty little head.

It  had  begun  to dawn on him that this same sweet pretty little head was a "good head for figures." In fact, a much better one than his own and
the  knowledge was disquieting. He was thunderstruck to discover that she could swiftly add a long column of figures in her head when he needed a
pencil and paper for more than three figures. And fractions presented no difficulties to her at all. He felt there was something unbecoming about
a  woman  understanding  fractions  and  business  matters  and  he  believed  that,  should a woman be so unfortunate as to have such unladylike
comprehension,  she  should pretend not to. Now he disliked talking business with her as much as he had enjoyed it before they were married. Then
he had thought it all beyond her mental grasp and it had been pleasant to explain things to her. Now he saw that she understood entirely too well
and  he felt the usual masculine indignation at the duplicity of women. Added to it was the usual masculine disillusionment in discovering that a
woman has a brain.

Just  how  early in his married life Frank learned of the deception Scarlett had used in marrying him, no one ever knew. Perhaps the truth dawned
on him when Tony Fontaine, obviously fancy free, came to Atlanta on business. Perhaps it was told him more directly in letters from his sister in
Jonesboro  who  was  astounded  at  his marriage. Certainly he never learned from Suellen herself. She never wrote him and naturally he could not
write  her  and  explain.  What good would explanations do anyway, now that he was married? He writhed inwardly at the thought that Suellen would
never  know  the truth and would always think he had senselessly jilted her. Probably everyone else was thinking this too and criticizing him. It
certainly  put him in an awkward position. And he had no way of clearing himself, for a man couldn't go about saying he had lost his head about a
woman--and a gentleman couldn't advertise the fact that his wife had entrapped him with a lie.

Scarlett  was  his wife and a wife was entitled to the loyalty of her husband. Furthermore, he could not bring himself to believe she had married
him  coldly  and  with  no  affection  for him at all. His masculine vanity would not permit such a thought to stay long in his mind. It was more
pleasant  to  think  she had fallen so suddenly in love with him she had been willing to lie to get him. But it was all very puzzling. He knew he
was  no  great  catch  for  a woman half his age and pretty and smart to boot, but Frank was a gentleman and he kept his bewilderment to himself.
Scarlett was his wife and he could not insult her by asking awkward questions which, after all, would not remedy matters.

Not  that  Frank  especially wanted to remedy matters, for it appeared that his marriage would be a happy one. Scarlett was the most charming and
exciting  of  women and he thought her perfect in all things--except that she was so headstrong. Frank learned early in his marriage that so long
as  she  had  her  own  way, life could be very pleasant, but when she was opposed-- Given her own way, she was as gay as a child, laughed a good
deal,  made  foolish  little  jokes, sat on his knee and tweaked his beard until he vowed he felt twenty years younger. She could be unexpectedly
sweet  and  thoughtful,  having  his  slippers  toasting  at  the  fire when he came home at night, fussing affectionately about his wet feet and
interminable  head  colds,  remembering that he always liked the gizzard of the chicken and three spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee. Yes, life was
very sweet and cozy with Scarlett--as long as she had her own way.



When  the marriage was two weeks old, Frank contracted the grippe and Dr. Meade put him to bed. In the first year of the war, Frank had spent two
months  in the hospital with pneumonia and he had lived in dread of another attack since that time, so he was only too glad to lie sweating under
three blankets and drink the hot concoctions Mammy and Aunt Pitty brought him every hour.

The  illness  dragged on and Frank worried more and more about the store as each day passed. The place was in charge of the counter boy, who came
to  the  house  every night to report on the day's transactions, but Frank was not satisfied. He fretted until Scarlett who had only been waiting
for  such an opportunity laid a cool hand on his forehead and said: "Now, sweetheart, I shall be vexed if you take on so. I'll go to town and see
how things are."

And  she  went,  smiling  as  she  smothered  his feeble protests. During the three weeks of her new marriage, she had been in a fever to see his
account books and find out just how money matters stood. What luck that he was bedridden!

The  store  stood  near  Five Points, its new roof glaring against the smoked bricks of the old walls. Wooden awnings covered the sidewalk to the
edge  of  the  street,  and at the long iron bars connecting the uprights horses and mules were hitched, their heads bowed against the cold misty
rain,  their backs covered with torn blankets and quilts. The inside of the store was almost like Bullard's store in Jonesboro, except that there
were no loungers about the roaring red-hot stove, whittling and spitting streams of tobacco juice at the sand boxes. It was bigger than Bullard's
store  and much darker. The wooden awnings cut off most of the winter daylight and the interior was dim and dingy, only a trickle of light coming
in  through  the  small fly-specked windows high up on the side walls. The floor was covered with muddy sawdust and everywhere was dust and dirt.
There  was  a  semblance  of  order  in the front of the store, where tall shelves rose into the gloom stacked with bright bolts of cloth, china,
cooking utensils and notions. But in the back, behind the partition, chaos reigned.

Here there was no flooring and the assorted jumble of stock was piled helter-skelter on the hard-packed earth. In the semi-darkness she saw boxes
and  bales of goods, plows and harness and saddles and cheap pine coffins. Secondhand furniture, ranging from cheap gum to mahogany and rosewood,
reared  up  in  the gloom, and the rich but worn brocade and horsehair upholstery gleamed incongruously in the dingy surroundings. China chambers
and bowl and pitcher sets littered the floor and all around the four walls were deep bins, so dark she had to hold the lamp directly over them to
discover they contained seeds, nails, bolts and carpenters' tools.

"I'd think a man as fussy and old maidish as Frank would keep things tidier," she thought, scrubbing her grimy hands with her handkerchief. "This
place  is  a  pig pen. What a way to run a store! If he'd only dust up this stuff and put it out in front where folks could see it, he could sell
things much quicker."

And if his stock was in such condition, what mustn't his accounts be!

I'll  look  at  his  account  book  now, she thought and, picking up the lamp, she went into the front of the store. Willie, the counter boy, was
reluctant  to  give her the large dirty-backed ledger. It was obvious that, young as he was, he shared Frank's opinion that women had no place in
business.  But  Scarlett silenced him with a sharp word and sent him out to get his dinner. She felt better when he was gone, for his disapproval
annoyed  her,  and  she  settled herself in a split-bottomed chair by the roaring stove, tucked one foot under her and spread the book across her
lap. It was dinner time and the streets were deserted. No customers called and she had the store to herself.

She  turned the pages slowly, narrowly scanning the rows of names and figures written in Frank's cramped copperplate hand. It was just as she had
expected, and she frowned as she saw this newest evidence of Frank's lack of business sense. At least five hundred dollars in debts, some of them
months  old,  were  set down against the names of people she knew well, the Merriwethers and the Elsings among other familiar names. From Frank's
deprecatory remarks about the money "people" owed him, she had imagined the sums to be small. But this!

"If  they can't pay, why do they keep on buying?" she thought irritably. "And if he knows they can't pay, why does he keep on selling them stuff?
Lots  of  them  could  pay  if he'd just make them do it. The Elsings certainly could if they could give Fanny a new satin dress and an expensive
wedding.  Frank's  just  too  soft  hearted,  and  people take advantage of him. Why, if he'd collected half this money, he could have bought the
sawmill and easily spared me the tax money, too."

Then  she  thought:  "Just  imagine  Frank trying to operate a sawmill! God's nightgown! If he runs this store like a charitable institution, how
could he expect to make money on a mill? The sheriff would have it in a month. Why, I could run this store better than he does! And I could run a
mill better than he could, even if I don't know anything about the lumber business!"

A startling thought this, that a woman could handle business matters as well as or better than a man, a revolutionary thought to Scarlett who had
been  reared in the tradition that men were omniscient and women none too bright. Of course, she had discovered that this was not altogether true
but  the  pleasant fiction still stuck in her mind. Never before had she put this remarkable idea into words. She sat quite still, with the heavy
book  across  her  lap, her mouth a little open with surprise, thinking that during the lean months at Tara she had done a man's work and done it
well.  She had been brought up to believe that a woman alone could accomplish nothing, yet she had managed the plantation without men to help her
until Will came. Why, why, her mind stuttered, I believe women could manage everything in the world without men's help--except having babies, and
God knows, no woman in her right mind would have babies if she could help it.

With  the  idea  that she was as capable as a man came a sudden rush of pride and a violent longing to prove it, to make money for herself as men
made money. Money which would be her own, which she would neither have to ask for nor account for to any man.

"I  wish  I  had money enough to buy that mill myself," she said aloud and sighed. "I'd sure make it hum. And I wouldn't let even one splinter go
out on credit."

She  sighed  again. There was nowhere she could get any money, so the idea was out of the question. Frank would simply have to collect this money
owing  him  and  buy  the  mill. It was a sure way to make money, and when he got the mill, she would certainly find some way to make him be more
businesslike in its operation than he had been with the store.

She  pulled a back page out of the ledger and began copying the list of debtors who had made no payments in several months. She'd take the matter
up  with  Frank  just as soon as she reached home. She'd make him realize that these people had to pay their bills even if they were old friends,
even  if  it  did  embarrass  him  to  press them for money. That would probably upset Frank, for he was timid and fond of the approbation of his
friends. He was so thin skinned he'd rather lose the money than be businesslike about collecting it.

And  he'd  probably  tell her that no one had any money with which to pay him. Well, perhaps that was true. Poverty was certainly no news to her.
But nearly everybody had saved some silver or jewelry or was hanging on to a little real estate. Frank could take them in lieu of cash.

She  could  imagine how Frank would moan when she broached such an idea to him. Take the jewelry and property of his friends! Well, she shrugged,
he  can  moan  all  he  likes.  I'm going to tell him that he may be willing to stay poor for friendship's sake but I'm not. Frank will never get
anywhere  if  he  doesn't  get up some gumption. And he's got to get somewhere! He's got to make money, even if I've got to wear the pants in the
family to make him do.

She  was  writing busily, her face screwed up with the effort, her tongue clamped between her teeth, when the front door opened and a great draft
of cold wind swept the store. A tall man came into the dingy room walking with a light Indian-like tread, and looking up she saw Rhett Butler.

He  was  resplendent  in new clothes and a greatcoat with a dashing cape thrown back from his heavy shoulders. His tall hat was off in a deep bow
when  her eyes met his and his hand went to the bosom of a spotless pleated shirt. His white teeth gleamed startlingly against his brown face and
his bold eyes raked her.

"My dear Mrs. Kennedy," he said, walking toward her. "My very dear Mrs. Kennedy!" and he broke into a loud merry laugh.

At  first  she  was as startled as if a ghost had invaded the store and then, hastily removing her foot from beneath her, she stiffened her spine
and gave him a cold stare.

"What are you doing here?"

"I called on Miss Pittypat and learned of your marriage and so I hastened here to congratulate you."

The memory of her humiliation at his hands made her go crimson with shame.

"I don't see how you have the gall to face me!" she cried.

"On the contrary! How have you the gall to face me?"

"Oh, you are the most--"

"Shall  we  let the bugles sing truce?" he smiled down at her, a wide flashing smile that had impudence in it but no shame for his own actions or
condemnation for hers. In spite of herself, she had to smile too, but it was a wry, uncomfortable smile.

"What a pity they didn't hang you!"

"Others  share your feeling, I fear. Come, Scarlett, relax. You look like you'd swallowed a ramrod and it isn't becoming. Surely, you've had time
to recover from my--er--my little joke."

"Joke? Ha! I'll never get over it!"

"Oh, yes, you will. You are just putting on this indignant front because you think it's proper and respectable. May I sit down?"

"No."

He sank into a chair beside her and grinned.

"I hear you couldn't even wait two weeks for me," he said and gave a mock sigh. "How fickle is woman!"

When she did not reply he continued.

"Tell  me,  Scarlett,  just  between  friends--between very old and very intimate friends--wouldn't it have been wiser to wait until I got out of
jail? Or are the charms of wedlock with old Frank Kennedy more alluring than illicit relations with me?"

As always when his mockery aroused wrath within her, wrath fought with laughter at his impudence.

"Don't be absurd."

"And  would  you  mind  satisfying my curiosity on one point which has bothered me for some time? Did you have no womanly repugnance, no delicate
shrinking from marrying not just one man but two for whom you had no love or even affection? Or have I been misinformed about the delicacy of our
Southern womanhood?"

"Rhett!"

"I  have  my  answer.  I  always felt that women had a hardness and endurance unknown to men, despite the pretty idea taught me in childhood that
women  are  frail, tender, sensitive creatures. But after all, according to the Continental code of etiquette, it's very bad form for husband and
wife  to  love  each other. Very bad taste, indeed. I always felt that the Europeans had the right idea in that matter. Marry for convenience and
love for pleasure. A sensible system, don't you think? You are closer to the old country than I thought."

How  pleasant  it  would be to shout at him: "I did not marry for convenience!" But unfortunately, Rhett had her there and any protest of injured
innocence would only bring more barbed remarks from him.

"How you do run on," she said coolly. Anxious to change the subject, she asked: "How did you ever get out of jail?"

"Oh,  that!" he answered, making an airy gesture. "Not much trouble. They let me out this morning. I employed a delicate system of blackmail on a
friend  in Washington who is quite high in the councils of the Federal government. A splendid fellow--one of the staunch Union patriots from whom
I  used  to  buy  muskets  and hoop skirts for the Confederacy. When my distressing predicament was brought to his attention in the right way, he
hastened to use his influence, and so I was released. Influence is everything, and guilt or innocence merely an academic question."

"I'll take oath you weren't innocent."

"No,  now  that  I  am free of the toils, I'll frankly admit that I'm as guilty as Cain. I did kill the nigger. He was uppity to a lady, and what
else  could  a Southern gentleman do? And while I'm confessing, I must admit that I shot a Yankee cavalryman after some words in a barroom. I was
not charged with that peccadillo, so perhaps some other poor devil has been hanged for it, long since."

He  was so blithe about his murders her blood chilled. Words of moral indignation rose to her lips but suddenly she remembered the Yankee who lay
under  the  tangle  of  scuppernong vines at Tara. He had not been on her conscience any more than a roach upon which she might have stepped. She
could not sit in judgment on Rhett when she was as guilty as he.

"And,  as  I  seem to be making a clean breast of it, I must tell you, in strictest confidence (that means, don't tell Miss Pittypat!) that I did
have the money, safe in a bank in Liverpool."

"The money?"

"Yes,  the money the Yankees were so curious about. Scarlett, it wasn't altogether meanness that kept me from giving you the money you wanted. If
I'd  drawn a draft they could have traced it somehow and I doubt if you'd have gotten a cent. My only hope lay in doing nothing. I knew the money
was  pretty  safe,  for if worst came to worst, if they had located it and tried to take it away from me, I would have named every Yankee patriot
who sold me bullets and machinery during the war. Then there would have been a stink, for some of them are high up in Washington now. In fact, it
was my threat to unbosom my conscience about them that got me out of jail. I--"

"Do you mean you--you actually have the Confederate gold?"

"Not all of it. Good Heavens, no! There must be fifty or more ex-blockaders who have plenty salted away in Nassau and England and Canada. We will
be  pretty  unpopular  with  the  Confederates who weren't as slick as we were. I have got close to half a million. Just think, Scarlett, a half-
million dollars, if you'd only restrained your fiery nature and not rushed into wedlock again!"

A  half-million  dollars. She felt a pang of almost physical sickness at the thought of so much money. His jeering words passed over her head and
she  did not even hear them. It was hard to believe there was so much money in all this bitter and poverty-stricken world. So much money, so very
much  money,  and  someone  else  had it, someone who took it lightly and didn't need it. And she had only a sick elderly husband and this dirty,
piddling,  little  store  between  her  and  a  hostile world. It wasn't fair that a reprobate like Rhett Butler should have so much and she, who
carried  so heavy a load, should have so little. She hated him, sitting there in his dandified attire, taunting her. Well, she wouldn't swell his
conceit by complimenting him on his cleverness. She longed viciously for sharp words with which to cut him.

"I  suppose you think it's honest to keep the Confederate money. Well, it isn't. It's plain out and out stealing and you know it. I wouldn't have
that on my conscience."

"My! How sour the grapes are today!" he exclaimed, screwing up his face. "And just whom am I stealing from?"

She was silent, trying to think just whom indeed. After all, he had only done what Frank had done on a small scale.

"Half  the  money  is  honestly  mine," he continued, "honestly made with the aid of honest Union patriots who were willing to sell out the Union
behind  its  back--for one-hundred-per-cent profit on their goods. Part I made out of my little investment in cotton at the beginning of the war,
the cotton I bought cheap and sold for a dollar a pound when the British mills were crying for it. Part I got from food speculation. Why should I
let  the  Yankees have the fruits of my labor? But the rest did belong to the Confederacy. It came from Confederate cotton which I managed to run
through  the  blockade  and  sell  in Liverpool at sky-high prices. The cotton was given me in good faith to buy leather and rifles and machinery
with.  And  it was taken by me in good faith to buy the same. My orders were to leave the gold in English banks, under my own name, in order that
my  credit  would  be good. You remember when the blockade tightened, I couldn't get a boat out of any Confederate port or into one, so there the
money  stayed  in  England.  What  should  I  have  done?  Drawn out all that gold from English banks, like a simpleton, and tried to run it into
Wilmington?  And  let  the  Yankees capture it? Was it my fault that the blockade got too tight? Was it my fault that our Cause failed? The money
belonged to the Confederacy. Well, there is no Confederacy now--though you'd never know it, to hear some people talk. Whom shall I give the money
to? The Yankee government? I should so hate for people to think me a thief."

He removed a leather case from his pocket, extracted a long cigar and smelled it approvingly, meanwhile watching her with pseudo anxiety as if he
hung on her words.

Plague  take him, she thought, he's always one jump ahead of me. There is always something wrong with his arguments but I never can put my finger
on just what it is.

"You  might,"  she  said  with dignity, "distribute it to those who are in need. The Confederacy is gone but there are plenty of Confederates and
their families who are starving."

He threw back his bead and laughed rudely.

"You  are  never  so charming or so absurd as when you are airing some hypocrisy like that," he cried in frank enjoyment. "Always tell the truth,
Scarlett.  You  can't  lie.  The  Irish  are  the  poorest  liars in the world. Come now, be frank. You never gave a damn about the late lamented
Confederacy  and  you  care  less about the starving Confederates. You'd scream in protest if I even suggested giving away all the money unless I
started off by giving you the lion's share."

"I don't want your money," she began, trying to be coldly dignified.

"Oh, don't you! Your palm is itching to beat the band this minute. If I showed you a quarter, you'd leap on it."

"If  you  have come here to insult me and laugh at my poverty, I will wish you good day," she retorted, trying to rid her lap of the heavy ledger
so  she  might  rise  and make her words more impressive. Instantly, he was on his feet bending over her, laughing as he pushed her back into her
chair.

"When  will you ever get over losing your temper when you hear the truth? You never mind speaking the truth about other people, so why should you
mind hearing it about yourself? I'm not insulting you. I think acquisitiveness is a very fine quality."

She was not sure what acquisitiveness meant but as he praised it she felt slightly mollified.

"I didn't come to gloat over your poverty but to wish you long life and happiness in your marriage. By the way, what did sister Sue think of your
larceny?"

"My what?"

"Your stealing Frank from under her nose."

"I did not--"

"Well, we won't quibble about the word. What did she say?"

"She said nothing," said Scarlett. His eyes danced as they gave her the lie.

"How  unselfish of her. Now, let's hear about your poverty. Surely I have the right to know, after your little trip out to the jail not long ago.
Hasn't Frank as much money as you hoped?"

There was no evading his impudence. Either she would have to put up with it or ask him to leave. And now she did not want him to leave. His words
were  barbed but they were the barbs of truth. He knew what she had done and why she had done it and he did not seem to think the less of her for
it.  And  though his questions were unpleasantly blunt, they seemed actuated by a friendly interest. He was one person to whom she could tell the
truth.  That would be a relief, for it had been so long since she had told anyone the truth about herself and her motives. Whenever she spoke her
mind  everyone seemed to be shocked. Talking to Rhett was comparable only to one thing, the feeling of ease and comfort afforded by a pair of old
slippers after dancing in a pair too tight.

"Didn't you get the money for the taxes? Don't tell me the wolf is still at the door of Tara." There was a different tone in his voice.

She  looked  up to meet his dark eyes and caught an expression which startled and puzzled her at first, and then made her suddenly smile, a sweet
and  charming  smile which was seldom on her face these days. What a perverse wretch he was, but how nice he could be at times! She knew now that
the  real  reason  for  his call was not to tease her but to make sure she had gotten the money for which she had been so desperate. She knew now
that  he  had hurried to her as soon as he was released, without the slightest appearance of hurry, to lend her the money if she still needed it.
And  yet  he would torment and insult her and deny that such was his intent, should she accuse him. He was quite beyond all comprehension. Did he
really care about her, more than he was willing to admit? Or did he have some other motive? Probably the latter, she thought. But who could tell?
He did such strange things sometimes.

"No," she said, "the wolf isn't at the door any longer. I--I got the money."

"But not without a struggle, I'll warrant. Did you manage to restrain yourself until you got the wedding ring on your finger?"

She  tried  not  to  smile at his accurate summing up of her conduct but she could not help dimpling. He seated himself again, sprawling his long
legs comfortably.

"Well, tell me about your poverty. Did Frank, the brute, mislead you about his prospects? He should be soundly thrashed for taking advantage of a
helpless female. Come, Scarlett, tell me everything. You should have no secrets from me. Surely, I know the worst about you."

"Oh,  Rhett,  you're  the worst--well, I don't know what! No, he didn't exactly fool me but--" Suddenly it became a pleasure to unburden herself.
"Rhett, if Frank would just collect the money people owe him, I wouldn't be worried about anything. But, Rhett, fifty people owe him and he won't
press them. He's so thin skinned. He says a gentleman can't do that to another gentleman. And it may be months and may be never before we get the
money."

"Well, what of it? Haven't you enough to eat on until he does collect?"

"Yes, but--well, as a matter of fact, I could use a little money right now." Her eyes brightened as she thought of the mill. "Perhaps--"

"What for? More taxes?"

"Is that any of your business?"

"Yes,  because  you  are  getting  ready  to  touch  me for a loan. Oh, I know all the approaches. And I'll lend it to you--without, my dear Mrs.
Kennedy, that charming collateral you offered me a short while ago. Unless, of course, you insist."

"You are the coarsest--"

"Not  at  all. I merely wanted to set your mind at ease. I knew you'd be worried about that point. Not much worried but a little. And I'm willing
to  lend  you the money. But I do want to know how you are going to spend it. I have that right, I believe. If it's to buy you pretty frocks or a
carriage, take it with my blessing. But if it's to buy a new pair of breeches for Ashley Wilkes, I fear I must decline to lend it."

She was hot with sudden rage and she stuttered until words came.

"Ashley  Wilkes has never taken a cent from me! I couldn't make him take a cent if he were starving! You don't understand him, how honorable, how
proud he is! Of course, you can't understand him, being what you are--"

"Don't  let's  begin calling names. I could call you a few that would match any you could think of for me. You forget that I have been keeping up
with you through Miss Pittypat, and the dear soul tells all she knows to any sympathetic listener. I know that Ashley has been at Tara ever since
he came home from Rock Island. I know that you have even put up with having his wife around, which must have been a strain on you."

"Ashley is--"

"Oh,  yes," he said, waving his hand negligently. "Ashley is too sublime for my earthy comprehension. But please don't forget I was an interested
witness  to your tender scene with him at Twelve Oaks and something tells me he hasn't changed since then. And neither have you. He didn't cut so
sublime a figure that day, if I remember rightly. And I don't think the figure he cuts now is much better. Why doesn't he take his family and get
out  and  find work? And stop living at Tara? Of course, it's just a whim of mine, but I don't intend to lend you a cent for Tara to help support
him. Among men, there's a very unpleasant name for men who permit women to support them."

"How  dare  you  say  such  things? He's been working like a field hand!" For all her rage, her heart was wrung by the memory of Ashley splitting
fence rails.

"And worth his weight in gold, I dare say. What a hand he must be with the manure and--"

"He's--"

"Oh,  yes, I know. Let's grant that he does the best he can but I don't imagine he's much help. You'll never make a farm hand out of a Wilkes--or
anything else that's useful. The breed is purely ornamental. Now, quiet your ruffled feathers and overlook my boorish remarks about the proud and
honorable  Ashley.  Strange  how these illusions will persist even in women as hard headed as you are. How much money do you want and what do you
want it for?"

When she did not answer he repeated:

"What  do  you  want  it for? And see if you can manage to tell me the truth. It will do as well as a lie. In fact, better, for if you lie to me,
I'll  be sure to find it out, and think how embarrassing that would be. Always remember this, Scarlett, I can stand anything from you but a lie--
your dislike for me, your tempers, all your vixenish ways, but not a lie. Now what do you want it for?"

Raging  as  she  was  at his attack on Ashley, she would have given anything to spit on him and throw his offer of money proudly into his mocking
face.  For  a moment she almost did, but the cold hand of common sense held her back. She swallowed her anger with poor grace and tried to assume
an expression of pleasant dignity. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs toward the stove.

"If there's one thing in the world that gives me more amusement than anything else," he remarked, "it's the sight of your mental struggles when a
matter of principle is laid up against something practical like money. Of course, I know the practical in you will always win, but I keep hanging
around  to see if your better nature won't triumph some day. And when that day comes I shall pack my bag and leave Atlanta forever. There are too
many women whose better natures are always triumphing. . . . Well, let's get back to business. How much and what for?"

"I don't know quite how much I'll need," she said sulkily. "But I want to buy a sawmill--and I think I can get it cheap. And I'll need two wagons
and two mules. I want good mules, too. And a horse and buggy for my own use."

"A sawmill?"

"Yes, and if you'll lend me the money, I'll give you a half-interest in it."

"Whatever would I do with a sawmill?"

"Make money! We can make loads of money. Or I'll pay you interest on the loan--let's see, what is good interest?"

"Fifty per cent is considered very fine."

"Fifty--oh, but you are joking! Stop laughing, you devil. I'm serious."

"That's why I'm laughing. I wonder if anyone but me realizes what goes on in that head back of your deceptively sweet face."

"Well,  who  cares?  Listen,  Rhett,  and  see if this doesn't sound like good business to you. Frank told me about this man who has a sawmill, a
little  one  out  Peachtree  road,  and  he wants to sell it. He's got to have cash money pretty quick and he'll sell it cheap. There aren't many
sawmills  around  here now, and the way people are rebuilding--why, we could sell lumber sky high. The man will stay and run the mill for a wage.
Frank  told  me  about it. Frank would buy the mill himself if he had the money. I guess he was intending buying it with the money he gave me for
the taxes."

"Poor  Frank!  What  is he going to say when you tell him you've bought it yourself right out from under him? And how are you going to explain my
lending you the money without compromising your reputation?"

Scarlett had given no thought to this, so intent was she upon the money the mill would bring in.

"Well, I just won't tell him."

"He'll know you didn't pick it off a bush."

"I'll tell him--why, yes, I'll tell him I sold you my diamond earbobs. And I will give them to you, too. That'll be my collat--my whatchucallit."

"I wouldn't take your earbobs."

"I don't want them. I don't like them. They aren't really mine, anyway."

"Whose are they?"

Her mind went swiftly back to the still hot noon with the country hush deep about Tara and the dead man in blue sprawled in the hall.

"They were left with me--by someone who's dead. They're mine all right. Take them. I don't want them. I'd rather have the money for them."

"Good Lord!" he cried impatiently. "Don't you ever think of anything but money?"

"No,"  she  replied  frankly,  turning hard green eyes upon him. "And if you'd been through what I have, you wouldn't either. I've found out that
money is the most important thing in the world and, as God is my witness, I don't ever intend to be without it again."

She  remembered  the  hot sun, the soft red earth under her sick head, the niggery smell of the cabin behind the ruins of Twelve Oaks, remembered
the refrain her heart had beaten: "I'll never be hungry again. I'll never be hungry again."

"I'm  going  to  have money some day, lots of it, so I can have anything I want to eat. And then there'll never be any hominy or dried peas on my
table. And I'm going to have pretty clothes and all of them are going to be silk--"

"All?"

"All,"  she said shortly, not even troubling to blush at his implication. "I'm going to have money enough so the Yankees can never take Tara away
from  me.  And  I'm going to have a new roof for Tara and a new barn and fine mules for plowing and more cotton than you ever saw. And Wade isn't
ever  going  to  know what it means to do without the things he needs. Never! He's going to have everything in the world. And all my family, they
aren't  ever  going  to  be  hungry  again.  I  mean  it.  Every  word.  You  don't understand, you're such a selfish hound. You've never had the
Carpetbaggers trying to drive you out. You've never been cold and ragged and had to break your back to keep from starving!"

He said quietly: "I was in the Confederate Army for eight months. I don't know any better place for starving."

"The army! Bah! You've never had to pick cotton and weed corn. You've-- Don't you laugh at me!"

His hands were on hers again as her voice rose harshly.

"I wasn't laughing at you. I was laughing at the difference in what you look and what you really are. And I was remembering the first time I ever
saw  you,  at  the  barbecue  at the Wilkes'. You had on a green dress and little green slippers, and you were knee deep in men and quite full of
yourself.  I'll  wager  you  didn't  know  then  how  many pennies were in a dollar. There was only one idea in your whole mind then and that was
ensnaring Ash--"

She jerked her hands away from him.

"Rhett,  if  we  are  to  get  on  at  all,  you'll  have to stop talking about Ashley Wilkes. We'll always fall out about him, because you can't
understand him."

"I  suppose  you understand him like a book," said Rhett maliciously. "No, Scarlett, if I am to lend you the money I reserve the right to discuss
Ashley Wilkes in any terms I care to. I waive the right to collect interest on my loan but not that right. And there are a number of things about
that young man I'd like to know."

"I do not have to discuss him with you," she answered shortly.

"Oh,  but  you  do!  I  hold  the purse strings, you see. Some day when you are rich, you can have the power to do the same to others. . . . It's
obvious that you still care about him--"

"I do not."

"Oh, it's so obvious from the way you rush to his defense. You--"

"I won't stand having my friends sneered at."

"Well,  we'll  let that pass for the moment. Does he still care for you or did Rock Island make him forget? Or perhaps he's learned to appreciate
what a jewel of a wife he has?"

At  the  mention  of Melanie, Scarlett began to breathe hard and could scarcely restrain herself from crying out the whole story, that only honor
kept Ashley with Melanie. She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it.

"Oh. So he still hasn't enough sense to appreciate Mrs. Wilkes? And the rigors of prison didn't dim his ardor for you?"

"I see no need to discuss the subject."

"I wish to discuss it," said Rhett. There was a low note in his voice which Scarlett did not understand but did not like to hear. "And, by God, I
will discuss it and I expect you to answer me. So he's still in love with you?"

"Well,  what  if  he is?" cried Scarlett, goaded. "I don't care to discuss him with you because you can't understand him or his kind of love. The
only kind of love you know about is just--well, the kind you carry on with creatures like that Watling woman."

"Oh," said Rhett softly. "So I am only capable of carnal lusts?"

"Well, you know it's true."

"Now I appreciate your hesitance in discussing the matter with me. My unclean hands and lips besmirch the purity of his love."

"Well, yes--something like that."

"I'm interested in this pure love--"

"Don't be so nasty, Rhett Butler. If you are vile enough to think there's ever been anything wrong between us--"

"Oh, the thought never entered my head, really. That's why it all interests me. Just why hasn't there been anything wrong between you?"

"If you think that Ashley would--"

"Ah, so it's Ashley, and not you, who has fought the fight for purity. Really, Scarlett, you should not give yourself away so easily."

Scarlett looked into his smooth unreadable face in confusion and indignation.

"We won't go any further with this and I don't want your money. So, get out!"

"Oh,  yes,  you  do  want my money and, as we've gone this far, why stop? Surely there can be no harm in discussing so chaste an idyl--when there
hasn't been anything wrong. So Ashley loves you for your mind, your soul, your nobility of character?"

Scarlett  writhed at his words. Of course, Ashley loved her for just these things. It was this knowledge that made life endurable, this knowledge
that  Ashley,  bound  by  honor,  loved  her  from afar for beautiful things deep buried in her that he alone could see. But they did not seem so
beautiful when dragged to the light by Rhett, especially in that deceptively smooth voice that covered sarcasm.

"It  gives me back my boyish ideals to know that such a love can exist in this naughty world," he continued. "So there's no touch of the flesh in
his love for you? It would be the same if you were ugly and didn't have that white skin? And if you didn't have those green eyes which make a man
wonder just what you would do if he took you in his arms? And a way of swaying your hips, that's an allurement to any man under ninety? And those
lips which are--well, I mustn't let my carnal lusts obtrude. Ashley sees none of these things? Or if he sees them, they move him not at all?"

Unbidden,  Scarlett's  mind went back to that day in the orchard when Ashley's arms shook as he held her, when his mouth was hot on hers as if he
would never let her go. She went crimson at the memory and her blush was not lost on Rhett.

"So," he said and there was a vibrant note almost like anger in his voice. "I see. He loves you for your mind alone."

How  dare  he pry with dirty fingers, making the one beautiful sacred thing in her life seem vile? Coolly, determinedly, he was breaking down the
last of her reserves and the information he wanted was forthcoming.

"Yes, he does!" she cried, pushing back the memory of Ashley's lips.

"My  dear,  he doesn't even know you've got a mind. If it was your mind that attracted him, he would not need to struggle against you, as he must
have  done  to keep this love so--shall we say 'holy'? He could rest easily for, after all, a man can admire a woman's mind and soul and still be
an  honorable  gentleman and true to his wife. But it must be difficult for him to reconcile the honor of the Wilkeses with coveting your body as
he does."

"You judge everybody's mind by your own vile one!"

"Oh,  I've  never  denied coveting you, if that's what you mean. But, thank God, I'm not bothered about matters of honor. What I want I take if I
can get it, and so I wrestle neither with angels nor devils. What a merry hell you must have made for Ashley! Almost I can be sorry for him."

"I--I make a hell for him?"

"Yes,  you!  There you are, a constant temptation to him, but like most of his breed he prefers what passes in these parts as honor to any amount
of love. And it looks to me as if the poor devil now had neither love nor honor to warm himself!"

"He has love! . . . I mean, he loves me!"

"Does he? Then answer me this and we are through for the day and you can take the money and throw it in the gutter for all I care."

Rhett  rose to his feet and threw his half-smoked cigar into the spittoon. There was about his movements the same pagan freedom and leashed power
Scarlett  had noted that night Atlanta fell, something sinister and a little frightening. "If he loved you, then why in hell did he permit you to
come to Atlanta to get the tax money? Before I'd let a woman I loved do that, I'd--"

"He didn't know! He had no idea that I--"

"Doesn't it occur to you that he should have known?" There was barely suppressed savagery in his voice. "Loving you as you say he does, he should
have  known just what you would do when you were desperate. He should have killed you rather than let you come up here--and to me, of all people!
God in Heaven!"

"But he didn't know!"

"If he didn't guess it without being told, he'll never know anything about you and your precious mind."

How  unfair  he was! As if Ashley was a mind reader! As if Ashley could have stopped her, even had he known! But, she knew suddenly, Ashley could
have  stopped  her. The faintest intimation from him, in the orchard, that some day things might be different and she would never have thought of
going  to  Rhett. A word of tenderness, even a parting caress when she was getting on the train, would have held her back. But he had only talked
of  honor.  Yet--was Rhett right? Should Ashley have known her mind? Swiftly she put the disloyal thought from her. Of course, he didn't suspect.
Ashley  would  never  suspect  that  she would even think of doing anything so immoral. Ashley was too fine to have such thoughts. Rhett was just
trying  to  spoil  her love. He was trying to tear down what was most precious to her. Some day, she thought viciously, when the store was on its
feet and the mill doing nicely and she had money, she would make Rhett Butler pay for the misery and humiliation he was causing her.

He was standing over her, looking down at her, faintly amused. The emotion which had stirred him was gone.

"What does it all matter to you anyway?" she asked. "It's my business and Ashley's and not yours."

He shrugged.

"Only  this.  I have a deep and impersonal admiration for your endurance, Scarlett, and I do not like to see your spirit crushed beneath too many
millstones.  There's Tara. That's a man-sized job in itself. There's your sick father added on. He'll never be any help to you. And the girls and
the  darkies.  And  now  you've taken on a husband and probably Miss Pittypat, too. You've enough burdens without Ashley Wilkes and his family on
your hands."

"He's not on my hands. He helps--"

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,"  he  said  impatiently. "Don't let's have any more of that. He's no help. He's on your hands and he'll be on them, or on
somebody's, till he dies. Personally, I'm sick of him as a topic of conversation. . . . How much money do you want?"

Vituperative  words rushed to her lips. After all his insults, after dragging from her those things which were most precious to her and trampling
on them, he still thought she would take his money!

But the words were checked unspoken. How wonderful it would be to scorn his offer and order him out of the store! But only the truly rich and the
truly secure could afford this luxury. So long as she was poor, just so long would she have to endure such scenes as this. But when she was rich-
-oh,  what a beautiful warming thought that was!--when she was rich, she wouldn't stand anything she didn't like, do without anything she desired
or even be polite to people unless they pleased her.

I shall tell them all to go to Halifax, she thought, and Rhett Butler will be the first one!

The pleasure in the thought brought a sparkle into her green eyes and a half-smile to her lips. Rhett smiled too.

"You're  a pretty person, Scarlett," he said. "Especially when you are meditating devilment. And just for the sight of that dimple I'll buy you a
baker's dozen of mules if you want them."

The  front door opened and the counter boy entered, picking his teeth with a quill. Scarlett rose, pulled her shawl about her and tied her bonnet
strings firmly under her chin. Her mind was made up.

"Are you busy this afternoon? Can you come with me now?" she asked.

"Where?"

"I want you to drive to the mill with me. I promised Frank I wouldn't drive out of town by myself."

"To the mill in this rain?"

"Yes, I want to buy that mill now, before you change your mind."

He laughed so loudly the boy behind the counter started and looked at him curiously.

"Have  you  forgotten  you  are  married? Mrs. Kennedy can't afford to be seen driving out into the country with that Butler reprobate, who isn't
received in the best parlors. Have you forgotten your reputation?"

"Reputation,  fiddle-dee-dee!  I  want  that mill before you change your mind or Frank finds out that I'm buying it. Don't be a slow poke, Rhett.
What's a little rain? Let's hurry."



That  sawmill!  Frank  groaned  every time he thought of it, cursing himself for ever mentioning it to her. It was bad enough for her to sell her
earrings  to  Captain  Butler (of all people!) and buy the mill without even consulting her own husband about it, but it was worse still that she
did not turn it over to him to operate. That looked bad. As if she did not trust him or his judgment.

Frank,  in common with all men he knew, felt that a wife should be guided by her husband's superior knowledge, should accept his opinions in full
and  have  none of her own. He would have given most women their own way. Women were such funny little creatures and it never hurt to humor their
small  whims. Mild and gentle by nature, it was not in him to deny a wife much. He would have enjoyed gratifying the foolish notions of some soft
little person and scolding her lovingly for her stupidity and extravagance. But the things Scarlett set her mind on were unthinkable.

That  sawmill,  for  example. It was the shock of his life when she told him with a sweet smile, in answer to his questions, that she intended to
run  it  herself.  "Go  into  the  lumber  business  myself," was the way she put it. Frank would never forget the horror of that moment. Go into
business  for  herself!  It  was  unthinkable.  There were no women in business in Atlanta. In fact, Frank had never heard of a woman in business
anywhere.  If  women  were so unfortunate as to be compelled to make a little money to assist their families in these hard times, they made it in
quiet  womanly  ways--baking  as  Mrs.  Merriwether  was doing, or painting china and sewing and keeping boarders, like Mrs. Elsing and Fanny, or
teaching  school  like  Mrs. Meade or giving music lessons like Mrs. Bonnell. These ladies made money but they kept themselves at home while they
did  it,  as a woman should. But for a woman to leave the protection of her home and venture out into the rough world of men, competing with them
in  business,  rubbing  shoulders with them, being exposed to insult and gossip. . . . Especially when she wasn't forced to do it, when she had a
husband amply able to provide for her!

Frank  had  hoped she was only teasing or playing a joke on him, a joke of questionable taste, but he soon found she meant what she said. She did
operate  the sawmill. She rose earlier than he did to drive out Peachtree road and frequently did not come home until long after he had locked up
the store and returned to Aunt Pitty's for supper. She drove the long miles to the mill with only the disapproving Uncle Peter to protect her and
the  woods  were full of free niggers and Yankee riffraff. Frank couldn't go with her, the store took all of his time, but when he protested, she
said shortly: "If I don't keep an eye on that slick scamp, Johnson, he'll steal my lumber and sell it and put the money in his pocket. When I can
get a good man to run the mill for me, then I won't have to go out there so often. Then I can spend my time in town selling lumber."

Selling lumber in town! That was worst of all. She frequently did take a day off from the mill and peddle lumber and, on those days, Frank wished
he could hide in the dark back room of his store and see no one. His wife selling lumber!

And people were talking terrible about her. Probably about him too, for permitting her to behave in so unwomanly a fashion. It embarrassed him to
face  his customers over the counter and hear them say: "I saw Mrs. Kennedy a few minutes ago over at . . ." Everyone took pains to tell him what
she  did.  Everyone  was  talking about what happened over where the new hotel was being built. Scarlett had driven up just as Tommy Wellburn was
buying  some lumber from another man and she climbed down out of the buggy among the rough Irish masons who were laying the foundations, and told
Tommy  briefly  that he was being cheated. She said her lumber was better and cheaper too, and to prove it she ran up a long column of figures in
her  head  and gave him an estimate then and there. It was bad enough that she had intruded herself among strange rough workmen, but it was still
worse for a woman to show publicly that she could do mathematics like that. When Tommy accepted her estimate and gave her the order, Scarlett had
not  taken  her  departure speedily and meekly but had idled about, talking to Johnnie Gallegher, the foreman of the Irish workers, a hard-bitten
little gnome of a man who had a very bad reputation. The town talked about it for weeks.

On  top of everything else, she was actually making money out of the mill, and no man could feel right about a wife who succeeded in so unwomanly
an  activity.  Nor  did  she turn over the money or any part of it to him to use in the store. Most of it went to Tara and she wrote interminable
letters to Will Benteen telling him just how it should be spent. Furthermore, she told Frank that if the repairs at Tara could ever be completed,
she intended to lend out her money on mortgages.

"My! My!" moaned Frank whenever he thought of this. A woman had no business even knowing what a mortgage was.

Scarlett  was  full of plans these days and each one of them seemed worse to Frank than the previous one. She even talked of building a saloon on
the  property  where her warehouse had been until Sherman burned it. Frank was no teetotaler but he feverishly protested against the idea. Owning
saloon  property  was a bad business, an unlucky business, almost as bad as renting to a house of prostitution. Just why it was bad, he could not
explain to her and to his lame arguments she said "Fiddle-dee-dee!"

"Saloons  are  always good tenants. Uncle Henry said so," she told him. "They always pay their rent and, look here, Frank, I could put up a cheap
salon  out  of  poor-grade lumber I can't sell and get good rent for it, and with the rent money and the money from the mill and what I could get
from mortgages, I could buy some more sawmills."

"Sugar,  you don't need any more sawmills!" cried Frank, appalled. "What you ought to do is sell the one you've got. It's wearing you out and you
know what trouble you have keeping free darkies at work there--"

"Free darkies are certainly worthless," Scarlett agreed, completely ignoring his hint that she should sell. "Mr. Johnson says he never knows when
he  comes to work in the morning whether he'll have a full crew or not. You just can't depend on the darkies any more. They work a day or two and
then  lay  off  till  they've  spent  their  wages,  and the whole crew is like as not to quit overnight. The more I see of emancipation the more
criminal  I think it is. It's just ruined the darkies. Thousands of them aren't working at all and the ones we can get to work at the mill are so
lazy and shiftless they aren't worth having. And if you so much as swear at them, much less hit them a few licks for the good of their souls, the
Freedmen's Bureau is down on you like a duck on a June bug."

"Sugar, you aren't letting Mr. Johnson beat those--"

"Of course not," she returned impatiently. "Didn't I just say the Yankees would put me in jail if I did?"

"I'll bet your pa never hit a darky a lick in his life," said Frank.

"Well,  only  one.  A  stable  boy  who  didn't  rub down his horse after a day's hunt. But, Frank; it was different then. Free issue niggers are
something else, and a good whipping would do some of them a lot of good."

Frank  was  not  only  amazed at his wife's views and her plans but at the change which had come over her in the few months since their marriage.
This  wasn't  the  soft, sweet, feminine person he had taken to wife. In the brief period of the courtship, he thought he had never known a woman
more  attractively feminine in her reactions to life, ignorant, timid and helpless. Now her reactions were all masculine. Despite her pink cheeks
and  dimples  and pretty smiles, she talked and acted like a man. Her voice was brisk and decisive and she made up her mind instantly and with no
girlish  shilly-shallying.  She  knew  what  she wanted and she went after it by the shortest route, like a man, not by the hidden and circuitous
routes peculiar to women.

It  was not that Frank had never seen commanding women before this. Atlanta, like all Southern towns, had its share of dowagers whom no one cared
to  cross.  No  one  could be more dominating than stout Mrs. Merriwether, more imperious than frail Mrs. Elsing, more artful in securing her own
ends  than the silver-haired sweet-voiced Mrs. Whiting. But no matter what devices these ladies employed in order to get their own way, they were
always  feminine  devices.  They  made  a  point  of  being  deferential to men's opinions, whether they were guided by them or not. They had the
politeness  to appear to be guided by what men said, and that was what mattered. But Scarlett was guided by no one but herself and was conducting
her affairs in a masculine way which had the whole town talking about her.

"And," thought Frank miserably, "probably talking about me too, for letting her act so unwomanly."

Then,  there  was  that Butler man. His frequent calls at Aunt Pitty's house were the greatest humiliation of all. Frank had always disliked him,
even  when  he  had  done business with him before the war. He often cursed the day he had brought Rhett to Twelve Oaks and introduced him to his
friends.  He  despised  him for the cold-blooded way he had acted in his speculations during the war and for the fact that he had not been in the
army.  Rhett's eight months' service with the Confederacy was known only to Scarlett, for Rhett had begged her, with mock fear, not to reveal his
"shame" to anyone. Most of all Frank had contempt for him for holding on to the Confederate gold, when honest men like Admiral Bulloch and others
confronted  with  the  same  situation had turned back thousands to the Federal treasury. But whether Frank liked it or not, Rhett was a frequent
caller.

Ostensibly  it  was Miss Pitty he came to see and she had no better sense than to believe it and give herself airs over his visits. But Frank had
an  uncomfortable  feeling  that Miss Pitty was not the attraction which brought him. Little Wade was very fond of him, though the boy was shy of
most  people,  and even called him "Uncle Rhett," which annoyed Frank. And Frank could not help remembering that Rhett had squired Scarlett about
during  the  war days and there had been talk about them then. He imagined there might be even worse talk about them now. None of his friends had
the  courage  to  mention  anything  of this sort to Frank, for all their outspoken words on Scarlett's conduct in the matter of the mill. But he
could  not  help noticing that he and Scarlett were less frequently invited to meals and parties and fewer and fewer people came to call on them.
Scarlett  disliked  most of her neighbors and was too busy with her mill to care about seeing the ones she did like, so the lack of calls did not
disturb her. But Frank felt it keenly.

All  of  his  life, Frank had been under the domination of the phrase "What will the neighbors say?" and he was defenseless against the shocks of
his wife's repeated disregard of the proprieties. He felt that everyone disapproved of Scarlett and was contemptuous of him for permitting her to
"unsex  herself."  She did so many things a husband should not permit, according to his views, but if he ordered her to stop them, argued or even
criticized, a storm broke on his head.

"My! My!" he thought helplessly. "She can get mad quicker and stay mad longer than any woman I ever saw!"

Even  at  the  times  when  things were most pleasant, it was amazing how completely and how quickly the teasing, affectionate wife who hummed to
herself  as  she  went  about  the  house  could  be  transformed into an entirely different person. He had only to say: "Sugar, if I were you, I
wouldn't--" and the tempest would break.

Her  black brows rushed together to meet in a sharp angle over her nose and Frank cowered, almost visibly. She had the temper of a Tartar and the
rages  of  a wild cat and, at such times, she did not seem to care what she said or how much it hurt. Clouds of gloom hung over the house on such
occasions.  Frank  went early to the store and stayed late. Pitty scrambled into her bedroom like a rabbit panting for its burrow. Wade and Uncle
Peter retired to the carriage house and Cookie kept to her kitchen and forebore to raise her voice to praise the Lord in song. Only Mammy endured
Scarlett's temper with equanimity and Mammy had had many years of training with Gerald O'Hara and his explosions.

Scarlett  did not mean to be short tempered and she really wanted to make Frank a good wife, for she was fond of him and grateful for his help in
saving Tara. But he did try her patience to the breaking point so often and in so many different ways.

She  could  never  respect  a man who let her run over him and the timid, hesitant attitude he displayed in any unpleasant situation, with her or
with  others,  irritated her unbearably. But she could have overlooked these things and even been happy, now that some of her money problems were
being  solved,  except  for  her  constantly  renewed  exasperation  growing out of the many incidents which showed that Frank was neither a good
business man nor did he want her to be a good business man.

As  she  expected,  he  had  refused  to  collect the unpaid bills until she prodded him into it, and then he had done it apologetically and half
heartedly. That experience was the final evidence she needed to show her that the Kennedy family would never have more than a bare living, unless
she  personally made the money she was determined to have. She knew now that Frank would be contented to dawdle along with his dirty little store
for the rest of his life. He didn't seem to realize what a slender fingerhold they had on security and how important it was to make more money in
these troublous times when money was the only protection against fresh calamities.

Frank  might  have  been  a  successful  business man in the easy days before the war but he was so annoyingly old-fashioned, she thought, and so
stubborn  about  wanting to do things in the old ways, when the old ways and the old days were gone. He was utterly lacking in the aggressiveness
needed  in  these new bitter times. Well, she had the aggressiveness and she intended to use it, whether Frank liked it or not. They needed money
and  she  was  making  money  and it was hard work. The very least Frank could do, in her opinion, was not to interfere with her plans which were
getting results.

With  her inexperience, operating the new mill was no easy job and competition was keener now than it had been at first, so she was usually tired
and  worried  and  cross  when  she  came  home  at nights. And when Frank would cough apologetically and say: "Sugar, I wouldn't do this," or "I
wouldn't do that, Sugar, if I were you," it was all she could do to restrain herself from flying into a rage, and frequently she did not restrain
herself.  If  he  didn't have the gumption to get out and make some money, why was he always finding fault with her? And the things he nagged her
about  were  so  silly!  What  difference  did  it make in times like these if she was being unwomanly? Especially when her unwomanly sawmill was
bringing in money they needed so badly, she and the family and Tara, and Frank too.

Frank  wanted  rest and quiet. The war in which he had served so conscientiously had wrecked his health, cost him his fortune and made him an old
man. He regretted none of these things and after four years of war, all he asked of life was peace and kindliness, loving faces about him and the
approval  of  friends.  He soon found that domestic peace had its price, and that price was letting Scarlett have her own way, no matter what she
might  wish to do. So, because he was tired, he bought peace at her own terms. Sometimes, he thought it was worth it to have her smiling when she
opened  the  front  door  in the cold twilights, kissing him on the ear or the nose or some other inappropriate place, to feel her head snuggling
drowsily on his shoulder at night under warm quilts. Home life could be so pleasant when Scarlett was having her own way. But the peace he gained
was hollow, only an outward semblance, for he had purchased it at the cost of everything he held to be right in married life.

"A woman ought to pay more attention to her home and her family and not be gadding about like a man," he thought. "Now, if she just had a baby--"

He  smiled  when  he  thought of a baby and he thought of a baby very often. Scarlett had been most outspoken about not wanting a child, but then
babies  seldom  waited  to be invited. Frank knew that many women said they didn't want babies but that was all foolishness and fear. If Scarlett
had  a  baby,  she  would  love  it  and  be content to stay home and tend it like other women. Then she would be forced to sell the mill and his
problems  would be ended. All women needed babies to make them completely happy and Frank knew that Scarlett was not happy. Ignorant as he was of
women, he was not so blind that he could not see she was unhappy at times.

Sometimes he awoke at night and heard the soft sound of tears muffled in the pillow. The first time he had waked to feel the bed shaking with her
sobbing, he had questioned, in alarm: "Sugar, what is it?" and had been rebuked by a passionate cry: "Oh, let me alone!"

Yes,  a  baby  would  make her happy and would take her mind off things she had no business fooling with. Sometimes Frank sighed, thinking he had
caught a tropic bird, all flame and jewel color, when a wren would have served him just as well. In fact, much better.



CHAPTER XXXVII


It  was  on  a  wild wet night in April that Tony Fontaine rode in from Jonesboro on a lathered horse that was half dead from exhaustion and came
knocking  at  their  door, rousing her and Frank from sleep with their hearts in their throats. Then for the second time in four months, Scarlett
was  made  to  feel acutely what Reconstruction in all its implications meant, made to understand more completely what was in Will's mind when he
said  "Our  troubles  have just begun," to know that the bleak words of Ashley, spoken in the wind-swept orchard of Tara, were true: "This that's
facing all of us is worse than war--worse than prison--worse than death."

The  first  time  she had come face to face with Reconstruction was when she learned that Jonas Wilkerson with the aid of the Yankees could evict
her  from Tara. But Tony's advent brought it all home to her in a far more terrifying manner. Tony came in the dark and the lashing rain and in a
few  minutes he was gone back into the night forever, but in the brief interval between he raised the curtain on a scene of new horror, a curtain
that she felt hopelessly would never be lowered again.

That  stormy  night  when the knocker hammered on the door with such hurried urgency, she stood on the landing, clutching her wrapper to her and,
looking  down  into  the hall below, had one glimpse of Tony's swarthy saturnine face before he leaned forward and blew out the candle in Frank's
hand.  She  hurried  down  in  the darkness to grasp his cold wet hand and hear him whisper: "They're after me--going to Texas--my horse is about
dead--and  I'm  about starved. Ashley said you'd-- Don't light the candle! Don't wake the darkies. . . . I don't want to get you folks in trouble
if I can help it."

With  the  kitchen blinds drawn and all the shades pulled down to the sills, he permitted a light and he talked to Frank in swift jerky sentences
as Scarlett hurried about, trying to scrape together a meal for him.

He  was without a greatcoat and soaked to the skin. He was hatless and his black hair was plastered to his little skull. But the merriment of the
Fontaine boys, a chilling merriment that night, was in his little dancing eyes as he gulped down the whisky she brought him. Scarlett thanked God
that Aunt Pittypat was snoring undisturbed upstairs. She would certainly swoon if she saw this apparition.

"One damned bast--Scallawag less," said Tony, holding out his glass for another drink. "I've ridden hard and it'll cost me my skin if I don't get
out  of  here quick, but it was worth it. By God, yes! I'm going to try to get to Texas and lay low there. Ashley was with me in Jonesboro and he
told  me  to  come  to you all. Got to have another horse, Frank, and some money. My horse is nearly dead--all the way up here at a dead run--and
like  a  fool  I  went out of the house today like a bat out of hell without a coat or hat or a cent of money. Not that there's much money in our
house."

He laughed and applied himself hungrily to the cold corn pone and cold turnip greens on which congealed grease was thick in white flakes.

"You can have my horse," said Frank calmly. "I've only ten dollars with me but if you can wait till morning--"

"Hell's afire, I can't wait!" said Tony, emphatically but jovially. "They're probably right behind me. I didn't get much of a start. If it hadn't
been  for  Ashley dragging me out of there and making me get on my horse, I'd have stayed there like a fool and probably had my neck stretched by
now. Good fellow, Ashley."

So  Ashley  was mixed up in this frightening puzzle. Scarlett went cold, her hand at her throat. Did the Yankees have Ashley now? Why, why didn't
Frank ask what it was all about? Why did he take it all so coolly, so much as a matter of course? She struggled to get the question to her lips.

"What--" she began. "Who--"

"Your father's old overseer--that damned--Jonas Wilkerson."

"Did you--is he dead?"

"My  God,  Scarlett O'Hara!" said Tony peevishly. "When I start out to cut somebody up, you don't think I'd be satisfied with scratching him with
the blunt side of my knife, do you? No, by God, I cut him to ribbons."

"Good," said Frank casually. "I never liked the fellow."

Scarlett looked at him. This was not the meek Frank she knew, the nervous beard clawer who she had learned could be bullied with such ease. There
was an air about him that was crisp and cool and he was meeting the emergency with no unnecessary words. He was a man and Tony was a man and this
situation of violence was men's business in which a woman had no part.

"But Ashley-- Did he--"

"No.  He  wanted to kill him but I told him it was my right, because Sally is my sister-in-law, and he saw reason finally. He went into Jonesboro
with  me, in case Wilkerson got me first. But I don't think old Ash will get in any trouble about it. I hope not. Got any jam for this corn pone?
And can you wrap me up something to take with me?"

"I shall scream if you don't tell me everything."

"Wait  till  I've  gone and then scream if you've got to. I'll tell you about it while Frank saddles the horse. That damned--Wilkerson has caused
enough  trouble  already.  I know how he did you about your taxes. That's just one of his meannesses. But the worst thing was the way he kept the
darkies  stirred  up.  If  anybody  had told me I'd ever live to see the day when I'd hate darkies! Damn their black souls, they believe anything
those  scoundrels  tell  them  and forget every living thing we've done for them. Now the Yankees are talking about letting the darkies vote. And
they  won't let us vote. Why, there's hardly a handful of Democrats in the whole County who aren't barred from voting, now that they've ruled out
every  man  who  fought  in  the Confederate Army. And if they give the negroes the vote, it's the end of us. Damn it, it's our state! It doesn't
belong  to  the Yankees! By God, Scarlett, it isn't to be borne! And it won't be borne! We'll do something about it if it means another war. Soon
we'll be having nigger judges, nigger legislators--black apes out of the jungle--"

"Please--hurry, tell me! What did you do?"

"Give  me  another  mite  of  that  pone  before you wrap it up. Well, the word got around that Wilkerson had gone a bit too far with his nigger-
equality business. Oh, yes, he talks it to those black fools by the hour. He had the gall--the--" Tony spluttered helplessly, "to say niggers had
a right to--to--white women."

"Oh, Tony, no!"

"By  God,  yes!  I  don't  wonder  you  look  sick.  But hell's afire, Scarlett, it can't be news to you. They've been telling it to them here in
Atlanta."

"I--I didn't know."

"Well,  Frank  would  have kept it from you. Anyway, after that, we all sort of thought we'd call on Mr. Wilkerson privately by night and tend to
him, but before we could-- You remember that black buck, Eustis, who used to be our foreman?"

"Yes."

"Came  to  the  kitchen  door today while Sally was fixing dinner and--I don't know what he said to her. I guess I'll never know now. But he said
something  and  I  heard her scream and I ran into the kitchen and there he was, drunk as a fiddler's bitch--I beg your pardon, Scarlett, it just
slipped out."

"Go on."

"I  shot  him  and  when Mother ran in to take care of Sally, I got my horse and started to Jonesboro for Wilkerson. He was the one to blame. The
damned  black fool would never have thought of it but for him. And on the way past Tara, I met Ashley and, of course, he went with me. He said to
let  him  do it because of the way Wilkerson acted about Tara and I said No, it was my place because Sally was my own dead brother's wife, and he
went  with  me  arguing the whole way. And when we got to town, by God, Scarlett, do you know I hadn't even brought my pistol, I'd left it in the
stable. So mad I forgot--"

He  paused and gnawed the tough pone and Scarlett shivered. The murderous rages of the Fontaines had made County history long before this chapter
had opened.

"So  I  had  to  take  my  knife to him. I found him in the barroom. I got him in a corner with Ashley holding back the others and I told him why
before  I  lit  into him. Why, it was over before I knew it," said Tony reflecting. "First thing I knew, Ashley had me on my horse and told me to
come to you folks. Ashley's a good man in a pinch. He keeps his head."

Frank  came in, his greatcoat over his arm, and handed it to Tony. It was his only heavy coat but Scarlett made no protest. She seemed so much on
the outside of this affair, this purely masculine affair.

"But Tony--they need you at home. Surely, if you went back and explained--"

"Frank,  you've  married  a fool," said Tony with a grin, struggling into the coat. "She thinks the Yankees will reward a man for keeping niggers
off  his  women  folks. So they will, with a drumhead court and a rope. Give me a kiss, Scarlett. Frank won't mind and I may never see you again.
Texas is a long way off. I won't dare write, so let the home folks know I got this far in safety."

She  let  him  kiss her and the two men went out into the driving rain and stood for a moment, talking on the back porch. Then she heard a sudden
splashing  of hooves and Tony was gone. She opened the door a crack and saw Frank leading a heaving, stumbling horse into the carriage house. She
shut the door again and sat down, her knees trembling.

Now  she  knew  what Reconstruction meant, knew as well as if the house were ringed about by naked savages, squatting in breech clouts. Now there
came  rushing  to  her  mind  many  things  to  which she had given little thought recently, conversations she had heard but to which she had not
listened,  masculine talk which had been checked half finished when she came into rooms, small incidents in which she had seen no significance at
the  time,  Frank's  futile  warnings  to  her  against  driving out to the mill with only the feeble Uncle Peter to protect her. Now they fitted
themselves together into one horrifying picture.

The  negroes were on top and behind them were the Yankee bayonets. She could be killed, she could be raped and, very probably, nothing would ever
be  done  about it. And anyone who avenged her would be hanged by the Yankees, hanged without benefit of trial by judge and jury. Yankee officers
who knew nothing of law and cared less for the circumstances of the crime could go through the motions of holding a trial and put a rope around a
Southerner's neck.

"What  can we do?" she thought, wringing her hands in an agony of helpless fear. "What can we do with devils who'd hang a nice boy like Tony just
for killing a drunken buck and a scoundrelly Scallawag to protect his women folks?"

"It  isn't to be borne!" Tony had cried and he was right. It couldn't be borne. But what could they do except bear it, helpless as they were? She
fell  to  trembling  and,  for  the  first time in her life, she saw people and events as something apart from herself, saw clearly that Scarlett
O'Hara,  frightened  and helpless, was not all that mattered. There were thousands of women like her, all over the South, who were frightened and
helpless.  And  thousands  of  men,  who had laid down their arms at Appomattox, had taken them up again and stood ready to risk their necks on a
minute's notice to protect those women.

There  had  been  something  in  Tony's face which had been mirrored in Frank's, an expression she had seen recently on the faces of other men in
Atlanta,  a  look she had noticed but had not troubled to analyze. It was an expression vastly different from the tired helplessness she had seen
in  the  faces  of  men  coming  home from the war after the surrender. Those men had not cared about anything except getting home. Now they were
caring about something again, numbed nerves were coming back to life and the old spirit was beginning to burn. They were caring again with a cold
ruthless bitterness. And, like Tony, they were thinking: "It isn't to be borne!"

She  had  seen Southern men, soft voiced and dangerous in the days before the war, reckless and hard in the last despairing days of the fighting.
But  in  the  faces  of  the  two  men  who  stared  at each other across the candle flame so short a while ago there had been something that was
different, something that heartened her but frightened her--fury which could find no words, determination which would stop at nothing.

For  the  first time, she felt a kinship with the people about her, felt one with them in their fears, their bitterness, their determination. No,
it  wasn't  to  be  borne!  The  South  was  too beautiful a place to be let go without a struggle, too loved to be trampled by Yankees who hated
Southerners enough to enjoy grinding them into the dirt, too dear a homeland to be turned over to ignorant negroes drunk with whisky and freedom.

As  she  thought of Tony's sudden entrance and swift exit, she felt herself akin to him, for she remembered the old story how her father had left
Ireland,  left  hastily  and  by night, after a murder which was no murder to him or to his family. Gerald's blood was in her, violent blood. She
remembered her hot joy in shooting the marauding Yankee. Violent blood was in them all, perilously close to the surface, lurking just beneath the
kindly  courteous  exteriors.  All  of them, all the men she knew, even the drowsy-eyed Ashley and fidgety old Frank, were like that underneath--
murderous, violent if the need arose. Even Rhett, conscienceless scamp that he was, had killed a negro for being "uppity to a lady."

"Oh, Frank, how long will it be like this?" she leaped to her feet.

"As long as the Yankees hate us so, Sugar."

"Is there nothing anybody can do?"

Frank passed a tired hand over his wet beard. "We are doing things."

"What?"

"Why talk of them till we have accomplished something? It may take years. Perhaps--perhaps the South will always be like this."

"Oh, no!"

"Sugar, come to bed. You must be chilled. You are shaking."

"When will it all end?"

"When we can all vote again, Sugar. When every man who fought for the South can put a ballot in the box for a Southerner and a Democrat."

"A  ballot?"  she  cried  despairingly. "What good's a ballot when the darkies have lost their minds--when the Yankees have poisoned them against
us?"

Frank  went  on to explain in his patient manner, but the idea that ballots could cure the trouble was too complicated for her to follow. She was
thinking gratefully that Jonas Wilkerson would never again be a menace of Tara and she was thinking about Tony.

"Oh,  the  poor  Fontaines!"  she exclaimed. "Only Alex left and so much to do at Mimosa. Why didn't Tony have sense enough to--to do it at night
when no one would know who it was? A sight more good he'd do helping with the spring plowing than in Texas."

Frank  put an arm about her. Usually he was gingerly when he did this, as if he anticipated being impatiently shaken off, but tonight there was a
far-off look in his eyes and his arm was firm about her waist.

"There are things more important now than plowing, Sugar. And scaring the darkies and teaching the Scallawags a lesson is one of them. As long as
there are fine boys like Tony left, I guess we won't need to worry about the South too much. Come to bed."

"But, Frank--"

"If we just stand together and don't give an inch to the Yankees, we'll win, some day. Don't you bother your pretty head about it, Sugar. You let
your men folks worry about it. Maybe it won't come in our time, but surely it will come some day. The Yankees will get tired of pestering us when
they see they can't even dent us, and then we'll have a decent world to live in and raise our children in."

She  thought  of  Wade  and the secret she had carried silently for some days. No, she didn't want her children raised in this welter of hate and
uncertainty,  of  bitterness  and  violence  lurking  just  below the surface, of poverty and grinding hardships and insecurity. She never wanted
children  of hers to know what all this was like. She wanted a secure and well-ordered world in which she could look forward and know there was a
safe future ahead for them, a world where her children would know only softness and warmth and good clothes and fine food.

Frank  thought  this  could  he  accomplished by voting. Voting? What did votes matter? Nice people in the South would never have the vote again.
There  was  only  one  thing in the world that was a certain bulwark against any calamity which fate could bring, and that was money. She thought
feverishly that they must have money, lots of it to keep them safe against disaster.

Abruptly, she told him she was going to have a baby.



For weeks after Tony's escape, Aunt Pitty's house was subjected to repeated searches by parties of Yankee soldiers. They invaded the house at all
hours  and  without warning. They swarmed through the rooms, asking questions, opening closets, prodding clothes hampers, peering under beds. The
military  authorities  had  heard  that  Tony  had  been  advised to go to Miss Pitty's house, and they were certain he was still hiding there or
somewhere m the neighborhood.

As a result, Aunt Pitty was chronically in what Uncle Peter called a "state," never knowing when her bedroom would be entered by an officer and a
squad  of  men.  Neither  Frank  nor Scarlett had mentioned Tony's brief visit, so the old lady could have revealed nothing, even had she been so
inclined.  She  was entirely honest in her fluttery protestations that she had seen Tony Fontaine only once in her life and that was at Christmas
time in 1862.

"And," she would add breathlessly to the Yankee soldiers, in an effort to be helpful, "he was quite intoxicated at the time."

Scarlett,  sick  and  miserable in the early stage of pregnancy, alternated between a passionate hatred of the bluecoats who invaded her privacy,
frequently  carrying  away any little knick-knack that appealed to them, and an equally passionate fear that Tony might prove the undoing of them
all. The prisons were full of people who had been arrested for much less reason. She knew that if one iota of the truth were proved against them,
not only she and Frank but the innocent Pitty as well would go to jail.

For  some time there had been an agitation in Washington to confiscate all "Rebel property" to pay the United States' war debt and this agitation
had  kept  Scarlett  in  a  state  of anguished apprehension. Now, in addition to this, Atlanta was full of wild rumors about the confiscation of
property  of  offenders against military law, and Scarlett quaked lest she and Frank lose not only their freedom but the house, the store and the
mill.  And even if their property were not appropriated by the military, it would be as good as lost if she and Frank went to jail, for who would
look after their business in their absence?

She  hated Tony for bringing such trouble upon them. How could he have done such a thing to friends? And how could Ashley have sent Tony to them?
Never  again  would  she  give  aid to anyone if it meant having the Yankees come down on her like a swarm of hornets. No, she would bar the door
against  anyone  needing help. Except, of course, Ashley. For weeks after Tony's brief visit she woke from uneasy dreams at any sound in the road
outside,  fearing  it  might  be  Ashley  trying  to make his escape, fleeing to Texas because of the aid he had given Tony. She did not know how
matters  stood  with  him, for they did not dare write to Tara about Tony's midnight visit. Their letters might be intercepted by the Yankees and
bring  trouble upon the plantation as well. But, when weeks went by and they heard no bad news, they knew that Ashley had somehow come clear. And
finally, the Yankees ceased annoying them.

But  even  this  relief  did not free Scarlett from the state of dread which began when Tony came knocking at their door, a dread which was worse
than  the  quaking  fear  of  the  siege shells, worse even than the terror of Sherman's men during the last days of the war. It was as if Tony's
appearance that wild rainy night had stripped merciful blinders from her eyes and forced her to see the true uncertainty of her life.

Looking  about  her  in that cold spring of 1866, Scarlett realized what was facing her and the whole South. She might plan and scheme, she might
work  harder than her slaves had ever worked, she might succeed in overcoming all of her hardships, she might through dint of determination solve
problems  for  which  her  earlier  life  had  provided  no  training  at all. But for all her labor and sacrifice and resourcefulness, her small
beginnings  purchased at so great a cost might be snatched away from her at any minute. And should this happen, she had no legal rights, no legal
redress,  except  those  same  drumhead  courts of which Tony had spoken so bitterly, those military courts with their arbitrary powers. Only the
negroes  had rights or redress these days. The Yankees had the South prostrate and they intended to keep it so. The South had been tilted as by a
giant malicious hand, and those who had once ruled were now more helpless than their former slaves had ever been.

Georgia  was  heavily  garrisoned with troops and Atlanta had more than its share. The commandants of the Yankee troops in the various cities had
complete  power,  even  the power of life and death, over the civilian population, and they used that power. They could and did imprison citizens
for  any cause, or no cause, seize their property, hang them. They could and did harass and hamstring them with conflicting regulations about the
operation  of  their business, the wages they must pay their servants, what they should say in public and private utterances and what they should
write  in  newspapers. They regulated how, when and where they must dump their garbage and they decided what songs the daughters and wives of ex-
Confederates  could  sing,  so  that the singing of "Dixie" or "Bonnie Blue Flag" became an offense only a little less serious than treason. They
ruled  that  no  one could get a letter our of the post office without taking the Iron Clad oath and, in some instances, they even prohibited the
issuance of marriage licenses unless the couples had taken the hated oath.

The  newspapers  were  so  muzzled  that no public protest could be raised against the injustices or depredations of the military, and individual
protests were silenced with jail sentences. The jails were full of prominent citizens and there they stayed without hope of early trial. Trial by
jury  and  the  law  of  habeas  corpus  were practically suspended. The civil courts still functioned after a fashion but they functioned at the
pleasure  of  the military, who could and did interfere with their verdicts, so that citizens so unfortunate as to get arrested were virtually at
the mercy of the military authorities. And so many did get arrested. The very suspicion of seditious utterances against the government, suspected
complicity  in the Ku Klux Klan, or complaint by a negro that a white man had been uppity to him were enough to land a citizen in jail. Proof and
evidence were not needed. The accusation was sufficient. And thanks to the incitement of the Freedmen's Bureau, negroes could always be found who
were willing to bring accusations.

The  negroes  had  not yet been given the right to vote but the North was determined that they should vote and equally determined that their vote
should  be  friendly  to  the North. With this in mind, nothing was too good for the negroes. The Yankee soldiers backed them up in anything they
chose to do, and the surest way for a white person to get himself into trouble was to bring a complaint of any kind against a negro.

The  former  slaves  were  now  the lords of creation and, with the aid of the Yankees, the lowest and most ignorant ones were on top. The better
class  of  them, scorning freedom, were suffering as severely as their white masters. Thousands of house servants, the highest caste in the slave
population,  remained with their white folks, doing manual labor which had been beneath them in the old days. Many loyal field hands also refused
to  avail  themselves of the new freedom, but the hordes of "trashy free issue niggers," who were causing most of the trouble, were drawn largely
from the field-hand class.

In  slave  days,  these lowly blacks had been despised by the house negroes and yard negroes as creatures of small worth. Just as Ellen had done,
other  plantation mistresses throughout the South had put the pickaninnies through courses of training and elimination to select the best of them
for the positions of greater responsibility. Those consigned to the fields were the ones least willing or able to learn, the least energetic, the
least  honest  and  trustworthy, the most vicious and brutish. And now this class, the lowest in the black social order, was making life a misery
for the South.

Aided  by  the  unscrupulous  adventurers  who operated the Freedmen's Bureau and urged on by a fervor of Northern hatred almost religious in its
fanaticism, the former field hands found themselves suddenly elevated to the seats of the mighty. There they conducted themselves as creatures of
small  intelligence  might naturally be expected to do. Like monkeys or small children turned loose among treasured objects whose value is beyond
their comprehension, they ran wild--either from perverse pleasure in destruction or simply because of their ignorance.

To  the credit of the negroes, including the least intelligent of them, few were actuated by malice and those few had usually been "mean niggers"
even in slave days. But they were, as a class, childlike in mentality, easily led and from long habit accustomed to taking orders. Formerly their
white  masters  had given the orders. Now they had a new set of masters, the Bureau and the Carpetbaggers, and their orders were: "You're just as
good  as any white man, so act that way. Just as soon as you can vote the Republican ticket, you are going to have the white man's property. It's
as good as yours now. Take it, if you can get it!"

Dazzled  by  these tales, freedom became a never-ending picnic, a barbecue every day of the week, a carnival of idleness and theft and insolence.
Country  negroes  flocked  into  the cities, leaving the rural districts without labor to make the crops. Atlanta was crowded with them and still
they  came  by the hundreds, lazy and dangerous as a result of the new doctrines being taught them. Packed into squalid cabins, smallpox, typhoid
and  tuberculosis  broke  out  among  them. Accustomed to the care of their mistresses when they were ill in slave days, they did not know how to
nurse  themselves  or  their  sick.  Relying upon their masters in the old days to care for their aged and their babies, they now had no sense of
responsibility  for their helpless. And the Bureau was far too interested in political matters to provide the care the plantation owners had once
given.

Abandoned  negro children ran like frightened animals about the town until kind-hearted white people took them into their kitchens to raise. Aged
country  darkies,  deserted  by  their children, bewildered and panic stricken in the bustling town, sat on the curbs and cried to the ladies who
passed:  "Mistis, please Ma'm, write mah old Marster down in Fayette County dat Ah's up hyah. He'll come tek dis ole nigger home agin. 'Fo' Gawd,
Ah done got nuff of dis freedom!"

The Freedmen's Bureau, overwhelmed by the numbers who poured in upon them, realized too late a part of the mistake and tried to send them back to
their  former  owners. They told the negroes that if they would go back, they would go as free workers, protected by written contracts specifying
wages by the day. The old darkies went back to the plantations gladly, making a heavier burden than ever on the poverty-stricken planters who had
not  the heart to turn them out, but the young ones remained in Atlanta. They did not want to be workers of any kind, anywhere. Why work when the
belly is full?

For  the first time in their lives the negroes were able to get all the whisky they might want. In slave days, it was something they never tasted
except at Christmas, when each one received a "drap" along with his gift. Now they had not only the Bureau agitators and the Carpetbaggers urging
them  on,  but the incitement of whisky as well, and outrages were inevitable. Neither life nor property was safe from them and the white people,
unprotected by law, were terrorized. Men were insulted on the streets by drunken blacks, houses and barns were burned at night, horses and cattle
and chickens stolen in broad daylight, crimes of all varieties were committed and few of the perpetrators were brought to justice.

But  these  ignominies  and  dangers were as nothing compared with the peril of white women, many bereft by the war of male protection, who lived
alone  in  the  outlying  districts and on lonely roads. It was the large number of outrages on women and the ever-present fear for the safety of
their  wives  and  daughters  that  drove  Southern men to cold and trembling fury and caused the Ku Klux Klan to spring up overnight. And it was
against  this nocturnal organization that the newspapers of the North cried out most loudly, never realizing the tragic necessity that brought it
into  being.  The North wanted every member of the Ku Klux hunted down and hanged, because they had dared take the punishment of crime into their
own hands at a time when the ordinary processes of law and order had been overthrown by the invaders.

Here  was  the astonishing spectacle of half a nation attempting, at the point of bayonet, to force upon the other half the rule of negroes, many
of  them scarcely one generation out of the African jungles. The vote must be given to them but it must be denied to most of their former owners.
The  South  must  be  kept  down  and  disfranchisement  of  the  whites was one way to keep the South down. Most of those who had fought for the
Confederacy,  held  office  under  it  or  given  aid  and comfort to it were not allowed to vote, had no choice in the selection of their public
officials  and  were  wholly  under the power of an alien rule. Many men, thinking soberly of General Lee's words and example, wished to take the
oath,  become  citizens  again  and  forget  the  past. But they were not permitted to take it. Others who were permitted to take the oath, hotly
refused to do so, scorning to swear allegiance to a government which was deliberately subjecting them to cruelty and humiliation.

Scarlett  heard  over  and  over  until she could have screamed at the repetition: "I'd have taken their damned oath right after the surrender if
they'd acted decent. I can be restored to the Union, but by God, I can't be reconstructed into it!"

Through  these anxious days and nights, Scarlett was torn with fear. The ever-present menace of lawless negroes and Yankee soldiers preyed on her
mind,  the  danger  of  confiscation  was  constantly  with  her,  even  in  her  dreams, and she dreaded worse terrors to come. Depressed by the
helplessness  of herself and her friends, of the whole South, it was not strange that she often remembered during these days the words which Tony
Fontaine had spoken so passionately:

"Good God, Scarlett, it isn't to be borne! And it won't be borne!"



In  spite  of  war,  fire  and Reconstruction, Atlanta had again become a boom town. In many ways, the place resembled the busy young city of the
Confederacy's early days. The only trouble was that the soldiers crowding the streets wore the wrong kind of uniforms, the money was in the hands
of the wrong people, and the negroes were living in leisure while their former masters struggled and starved.

Underneath  the  surface were misery and fear, but all the outward appearances were those of a thriving town that was rapidly rebuilding from its
ruins,  a  bustling, hurrying town. Atlanta, it seemed, must always be hurrying, no matter what its circumstances might be. Savannah, Charleston,
Augusta,  Richmond,  New  Orleans  would  never hurry. It was ill bred and Yankeefied to hurry. But in this period, Atlanta was more ill bred and
Yankeefied  than  it had ever been before or would ever be again. With "new people" thronging in from all directions, the streets were choked and
noisy from morning till night. The shiny carriages of Yankee officers' wives and newly rich Carpetbaggers splashed mud on the dilapidated buggies
of the townspeople, and gaudy new homes of wealthy strangers crowded in among the sedate dwellings of older citizens.

The  war  had  definitely  established  the importance of Atlanta in the affairs of the South and the hitherto obscure town was now known far and
wide.  The  railroads  for which Sherman had fought an entire summer and killed thousands of men were again stimulating the life of the city they
had  brought  into  being.  Atlanta was again the center of activities for a wide region, as it had been before its destruction, and the town was
receiving a great influx of new citizens, both welcome and unwelcome.

Invading  Carpetbaggers  made  Atlanta  their  headquarters and on the streets they jostled against representatives of the oldest families in the
South  who  were likewise newcomers in the town. Families from the country districts who had been burned out during Sherman's march and who could
no  longer  make a living without the slaves to till the cotton had come to Atlanta to live. New settlers were coming in every day from Tennessee
and  the Carolinas where the hand of Reconstruction lay even heavier than in Georgia. Many Irish and Germans who had been bounty men in the Union
Army  had  settled  in  Atlanta after their discharge. The wives and families of the Yankee garrison, filled with curiosity about the South after
four  years  of  war, came to swell the population. Adventurers of every kind swarmed in, hoping to make their fortunes, and the negroes from the
country continued to come by the hundreds.

The  town  was  roaring--wide  open  like  a frontier village, making no effort to cover its vices and sins. Saloons blossomed overnight, two and
sometimes  three in a block, and after nightfall the streets were full of drunken men, black and white, reeling from wall to curb and back again.
Thugs,  pickpockets  and  prostitutes  lurked  in  the unlit alleys and shadowy streets. Gambling houses ran full blast and hardly a night passed
without  its  shooting or cutting affray. Respectable citizens were scandalized to find that Atlanta had a large and thriving red-light district,
larger  and  more  thriving than during the war. All night long pianos jangled from behind drawn shades and rowdy songs and laughter floated out,
punctuated by occasional screams and pistol shots. The inmates of these houses were bolder than the prostitutes of the war days and brazenly hung
out  of their windows and called to passers-by. And on Sunday afternoons, the handsome closed carriages of the madams of the district rolled down
the main streets, filled with girls in their best finery, taking the air from behind lowered silk shades.

Belle  Watling  was  the  most  notorious  of the madams. She had opened a new house of her own, a large two-story building that made neighboring
houses  in  the  district  look  like  shabby rabbit warrens. There was a long barroom downstairs, elegantly hung with oil paintings, and a negro
orchestra played every night. The upstairs, so rumor said, was fitted out with the finest of plush upholstered furniture, heavy lace curtains and
imported  mirrors  in  gilt  frames.  The  dozen  young  ladies with whom the house was furnished were comely, if brightly painted, and comported
themselves more quietly than those of other houses. At least, the police were seldom summoned to Belle's.

This  house  was something that the matrons of Atlanta whispered about furtively and ministers preached against in guarded terms as a cesspool of
iniquity,  a  hissing  and  a  reproach.  Everyone  knew that a woman of Belle's type couldn't have made enough money by herself to set up such a
luxurious  establishment.  She  had  to have a backer and a rich one at that. And Rhett Butler had never had the decency to conceal his relations
with  her, so it was obvious that he and no other must be that backer. Belle herself presented a prosperous appearance when glimpsed occasionally
in  her  closed  carriage driven by an impudent yellow negro. When she drove by, behind a fine pair of bays, all the little boys along the street
who could evade their mothers ran to peer at her and whisper excitedly: "That's her! That's ole Belle! I seen her red hair!"

Shouldering  the  shell-pitted  houses  patched  with  bits of old lumber and smoke-blackened bricks, the fine homes of the Carpetbaggers and war
profiteers  were  rising,  with  mansard roofs, gables and turrets, stained-glass windows and wide lawns. Night after night, in these newly built
homes,  the  windows  were  ablaze with gas light and the sound of music and dancing feet drifted out upon the air. Women in stiff bright-colored
silks  strolled about long verandas, squired by men in evening clothes. Champagne corks popped, and on lace tablecloths seven-course dinners were
laid. Hams in wine, pressed duck, pate de foie gras, rare fruits in and out of season, were spread in profusion.

Behind  the shabby doors of the old houses, poverty and hunger lived--all the more bitter for the brave gentility with which they were borne, all
the  more  pinching for the outward show of proud indifference to material wants. Dr. Meade could tell unlovely stories of those families who had
been  driven  from  mansions  to  boarding houses and from boarding houses to dingy rooms on back streets. He had too many lady patients who were
suffering  from  "weak hearts" and "declines." He knew, and they knew he knew, that slow starvation was the trouble. He could tell of consumption
making  inroads  on  entire  families and of pellagra, once found only among poor whites, which was now appearing in Atlanta's best families. And
there were babies with thin rickety legs and mothers who could not nurse them. Once the old doctor had been wont to thank God reverently for each
child he brought into the world. Now he did not think life was such a boon. It was a hard world for little babies and so many died in their first
few months of life.

Bright  lights  and  wine,  fiddles and dancing, brocade and broadcloth in the showy big houses and, just around the corners, slow starvation and
cold. Arrogance and callousness for the conquerors, bitter endurance and hatred for the conquered.



CHAPTER XXXVIII


Scarlett  saw it all, lived with it by day, took it to bed with her at night, dreading always what might happen next. She knew that she and Frank
were  already  in the Yankees' black books, because of Tony, and disaster might descend on them at any hour. But, now of all times, she could not
afford to be pushed back to her beginnings--not now with a baby coming, the mill just commencing to pay and Tara depending on her for money until
the  cotton  came  in  in  the  fall.  Oh, suppose she should lose everything! Suppose she should have to start all over again with only her puny
weapons  against  this  mad world! To have to pit her red lips and green eyes and her shrewd shallow brain against the Yankees and everything the
Yankees stood for. Weary with dread, she felt that she would rather kill herself than try to make a new beginning.

In  the  ruin  and  chaos of that spring of 1866, she single mindedly turned her energies to making the mill pay. There was money in Atlanta. The
wave  of rebuilding was giving her the opportunity she wanted and she knew she could make money if only she could stay out of jail. But, she told
herself  time  and again, she would have to walk easily, gingerly, be meek under insults, yielding to injustices, never giving offense to anyone,
black or white, who might do her harm. She hated the impudent free negroes as much as anyone and her flesh crawled with fury every time she heard
their  insulting remarks and high-pitched laughter as she went by. But she never even gave them a glance of contempt. She hated the Carpetbaggers
and  Scallawags  who  were getting rich with ease while she struggled, but she said nothing in condemnation of them. No one in Atlanta could have
loathed  the  Yankees more than she, for the very sight of a blue uniform made her sick with rage, but even in the privacy of her family she kept
silent about them.

I won't be a big-mouthed fool, she thought grimly. Let others break their hearts over the old days and the men who'll never come back. Let others
burn  with fury over the Yankee rule and losing the ballot. Let others go to jail for speaking their minds and get themselves hanged for being in
the  Ku  Klux  Klan.  (Oh, what a dreaded name that was, almost as terrifying to Scarlett as to the negroes.) Let other women be proud that their
husbands  belonged.  Thank God, Frank had never been mixed up in it! Let others stew and fume and plot and plan about things they could not help.
What did the past matter compared with the tense present and the dubious future? What did the ballot matter when bread, a roof and staying out of
jail were the real problems? And, please God, just let me stay out of trouble until June!

Only till June! By that month Scarlett knew she would be forced to retire into Aunt Pitty's house and remain secluded there until after her child
was  born. Already people were criticizing her for appearing in public when she was in such a condition. No lady ever showed herself when she was
pregnant.  Already  Frank  and Pitty were begging her not to expose herself--and them--to embarrassment and she had promised them to stop work in
June.

Only  till  June!  By  June she must have the mill well enough established for her to leave it. By June she must have money enough to give her at
least  some little protection against misfortune. So much to do and so little time to do it! She wished for more hours of the day and counted the
minutes, as she strained forward feverishly in her pursuit of money and still more money.

Because  she  nagged  the timid Frank, the store was doing better now and he was even collecting some of the old bills. But it was the sawmill on
which  her  hopes  were  pinned.  Atlanta  these days was like a giant plant which had been cut to the ground but now was springing up again with
sturdier  shoots,  thicker  foliage,  more numerous branches. The demand for building materials was far greater than could be supplied. Prices of
lumber, brick and stone soared and Scarlett kept the mill running from dawn until lantern light.

A  part  of every day she spent at the mill, prying into everything, doing her best to check the thievery she felt sure was going on. But most of
the  time she was riding about the town, making the rounds of builders, contractors and carpenters, even calling on strangers she had heard might
build at future dates, cajoling them into promises of buying from her and her only.

Soon  she  was a familiar sight on Atlanta's streets, sitting in her buggy beside the dignified, disapproving old darky driver, a lap robe pulled
high  about  her,  her little mittened hands clasped in her lap. Aunt Pitty had made her a pretty green mantelet which hid her figure and a green
pancake  hat  which matched her eyes, and she always wore these becoming garments on her business calls. A faint dab of rouge on her cheeks and a
fainter  fragrance of cologne made her a charming picture, as long as she did not alight from the buggy and show her figure. And there was seldom
any need for this, for she smiled and beckoned and the men came quickly to the buggy and frequently stood bareheaded in the rain to talk business
with her.

She  was  not  the  only  one  who had seen the opportunities for making money out of lumber, but she did not fear her competitors. She knew with
conscious pride in her own smartness that she was the equal of any of them. She was Gerald's own daughter and the shrewd trading instinct she had
inherited was now sharpened by her needs.

At  first  the other dealers had laughed at her, laughed with good-natured contempt at the very idea of a woman in business. But now they did not
laugh.  They  swore  silently  as they saw her ride by. The fact that she was a woman frequently worked in her favor, for she could upon occasion
look  so  helpless  and appealing that she melted hearts. With no difficulty whatever she could mutely convey the impression of a brave but timid
lady,  forced  by  brutal  circumstance into a distasteful position, a helpless little lady who would probably starve if customers didn't buy her
lumber.  But when ladylike airs failed to get results she was coldly businesslike and willingly undersold her competitors at a loss to herself if
it  would bring her a new customer. She was not above selling a poor grade of lumber for the price of good lumber if she thought she would not be
detected, and she had no scruples about black-guarding the other lumber dealers. With every appearance of reluctance at disclosing the unpleasant
truth,  she  would  sigh and tell prospective customers that her competitors' lumber was far too high in price, rotten, full of knot holes and in
general of deplorably poor quality.

The first time Scarlett lied in this fashion she felt disconcerted and guilty--disconcerted because the lie sprang so easily and naturally to her
lips, guilty because the thought flashed into her mind: What would Mother say?

There  was  no  doubt  what  Ellen would say to a daughter who told lies and engaged in sharp practices. She would be stunned and incredulous and
would  speak gentle words that stung despite their gentleness, would talk of honor and honesty and truth and duty to one's neighbor. Momentarily,
Scarlett  cringed  as  she  pictured the look on her mother's face. And then the picture faded, blotted out by an impulse, hard, unscrupulous and
greedy, which had been born in the lean days at Tara and was now strengthened by the present uncertainty of life. So she passed this milestone as
she  had  passed others before it--with a sigh that she was not as Ellen would like her to be, a shrug and the repetition of her unfailing charm:
"I'll think of all this later."

But  she never again thought of Ellen in connection with her business practices, never again regretted any means she used to take trade away from
other  lumber  dealers.  She  knew she was perfectly safe in lying about them. Southern chivalry protected her. A Southern lady could lie about a
gentleman but a Southern gentleman could not lie about a lady or, worse still, call the lady a liar. Other lumbermen could only fume inwardly and
state heatedly, in the bosoms of their families, that they wished to God Mrs. Kennedy was a man for just about five minutes.

One  poor  white  who operated a mill on the Decatur road did try to fight Scarlett with her own weapons, saying openly that she was a liar and a
swindler.  But  it  hurt him rather than helped, for everyone was appalled that even a poor white should say such shocking things about a lady of
good  family, even when the lady was conducting herself in such an unwomanly way. Scarlett bore his remarks with silent dignity and, as time went
by, she turned all her attention to him and his customers. She undersold him so relentlessly and delivered, with secret groans, such an excellent
quality of lumber to prove her probity that he was soon bankrupt. Then, to Frank's horror, she triumphantly bought his mill at her own price.

Once  in her possession there arose the perplexing problem of finding a trustworthy man to put in charge of it. She did not want another man like
Mr. Johnson. She knew that despite all her watchfulness he was still selling her lumber behind her back, but she thought it would be easy to find
the  right  sort  of  man.  Wasn't  everybody  as poor as Job's turkey, and weren't the streets full of men, some of them formerly rich, who were
without  work?  The  day  never went by that Frank did not give money to some hungry ex-soldier or that Pitty and Cookie did not wrap up food for
gaunt beggars.

But  Scarlett,  for  some reason she could not understand, did not want any of these. "I don't want men who haven't found something to do after a
year,"  she  thought. "If they haven't adjusted to peace yet, they couldn't adjust to me. And they all look so hangdog and licked. I don't want a
man  who's  licked. I want somebody who's smart and energetic like Renny or Tommy Wellburn or Kells Whiting or one of the Simmons boys or--or any
of  that  tribe.  They  haven't got that I-don't-care-about-anything look the soldiers had right after the surrender. They look like they cared a
heap about a heap of things."

But  to  her  surprise  the  Simmons boys, who had started a brick kiln, and Kells Whiting, who was selling a preparation made up in his mother's
kitchen, that was guaranteed to straighten the kinkiest negro hair in six applications, smiled politely, thanked her and refused. It was the same
with  the  dozen  others she approached. In desperation she raised the wage she was offering but she was still refused. One of Mrs. Merriwether's
nephews  observed impertinently that while he didn't especially enjoy driving a dray, it was his own dray and he would rather get somewhere under
his own steam than Scarlett's.

One  afternoon,  Scarlett  pulled up her buggy beside Rene Picard's pie wagon and hailed Rene and the crippled Tommy Wellburn, who was catching a
ride home with his friend.

"Look  here,  Renny, why don't you come and work for me? Managing a mill is a sight more respectable than driving a pie wagon. I'd think you'd be
ashamed."

"Me,  I  am  dead  to  shame," grinned Rene. "Who would be respectable? All of my days I was respectable until ze war set me free lak ze darkies.
Nevaire  again  must I be deegneefied and full of ennui. Free lak ze bird! I lak my pie wagon. I lak my mule. I lak ze dear Yankees who so kindly
buy  ze  pie  of  Madame  Belle  Mere.  No,  my  Scarlett,  I must be ze King of ze Pies. Eet ees my destiny! Lak Napoleon, I follow my star." He
flourished his whip dramatically.

"But you weren't raised to sell pies any more than Tommy was raised to wrastle with a bunch of wild Irish masons. My kind of work is more--"

"And I suppose you were raised to run a lumber mill," said Tommy, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Yes, I can just see little Scarlett at her
mother's knee, lisping her lesson, 'Never sell good lumber if you can get a better price for bad.'"

Rene roared at this, his small monkey eyes dancing with glee as he whacked Tommy on his twisted back.

"Don't be impudent," said Scarlett coldly, for she saw little humor in Tommy's remark. "Of course, I wasn't raised to run a sawmill."

"I  didn't mean to be impudent. But you are running a sawmill, whether you were raised to it or not. And running it very well, too. Well, none of
us,  as  far  as  I  can see, are doing what we intended to do right now, but I think we'll make out just the same. It's a poor person and a poor
nation that sits down and cries because life isn't precisely what they expected it to be. Why don't you pick up some enterprising Carpetbagger to
work for you, Scarlett? The woods are full of them, God knows."

"I  don't  want  a  Carpetbagger.  Carpetbaggers  will steal anything that isn't red hot or nailed down. If they amounted to anything they'd have
stayed  where they were, instead of coming down here to pick our bones. I want a nice man, from nice folks, who is smart and honest and energetic
and--"

"You  don't  want  much.  And you won't get it for the wage you're offering. All the men of that description, barring the badly maimed ones, have
already  got  something  to  do.  They  may be round pegs in square holes but they've all got something to do. Something of their own that they'd
rather do than work for a woman."

"Men haven't got much sense, have they, when you get down to rock bottom?"

"Maybe not but they've got a heap of pride," said Tommy soberly.

"Pride! Pride tastes awfully good, especially when the crust is flaky and you put meringue on it," said Scarlett tartly.

The two men laughed, a bit unwillingly, and it seemed to Scarlett that they drew together in united masculine disapproval of her. What Tommy said
was  true,  she  thought,  running over in her mind the men she had approached and the ones she intended to approach. They were all busy, busy at
something,  working hard, working harder than they would have dreamed possible in the days before the war. They weren't doing what they wanted to
do  perhaps,  or  what  was  easiest  to do, or what they had been reared to do, but they were doing something. Times were too hard for men to be
choosy.  And  if  they  were  sorrowing for lost hopes, longing for lost ways of living, no one knew it but they. They were fighting a new war, a
harder  war  than  the  one  before. And they were caring about life again, caring with the same urgency and the same violence that animated them
before the war had cut their lives in two.

"Scarlett,"  said Tommy awkwardly, "I do hate to ask a favor of you, after being impudent to you, but I'm going to ask it just the same. Maybe it
would help you anyway. My brother-in-law, Hugh Elsing, isn't doing any too well peddling kindling wood. Everybody except the Yankees goes out and
collects his own kindling wood. And I know things are mighty hard with the whole Elsing family. I--I do what I can, but you see I've got Fanny to
support,  and  then,  too,  I've got my mother and two widowed sisters down in Sparta to look after. Hugh is nice, and you wanted a nice man, and
he's from nice folks, as you know, and he's honest."

"But--well, Hugh hasn't got much gumption or else he'd make a success of his kindling."

Tommy shrugged.

"You've got a hard way of looking at things, Scarlett," he said. "But you think Hugh over. You could go far and do worse. I think his honesty and
his willingness will outweigh his lack of gumption."

Scarlett did not answer, for she did not want to be too rude. But to her mind there were few, if any, qualities that out-weighed gumption.

After  she  had  unsuccessfully  canvassed  the town and refused the importuning of many eager Carpetbaggers, she finally decided to take Tommy's
suggestion  and  ask  Hugh Elsing. He had been a dashing and resourceful officer during the war, but two severe wounds and four years of fighting
seemed  to  have  drained  him of all his resourcefulness, leaving him to face the rigors of peace as bewildered as a child. There was a lost-dog
look in his eyes these days as he went about peddling his firewood, and he was not at all the kind of man she had hoped to get.

"He's  stupid," she thought. "He doesn't know a thing about business and I'll bet he can't add two and two. And I doubt if he'll ever learn. But,
at least, he's honest and won't swindle me."

Scarlett  had  little  use  these  days  for  honesty in herself, but the less she valued it in herself the more she was beginning to value it in
others.

"It's  a  pity  Johnnie Gallegher is tied up with Tommy Wellburn on that construction work," she thought. "He's just the kind of man I want. He's
hard  as  nails  and  slick  as  a  snake, but he'd be honest if it paid him to be honest. I understand him and he understands me and we could do
business together very well. Maybe I can get him when the hotel is finished and till then I'll have to make out on Hugh and Mr. Johnson. If I put
Hugh  in charge of the new mill and leave Mr. Johnson at the old one, I can stay in town and see to the selling while they handle the milling and
hauling.  Until  I  can get Johnnie I'll have to risk Mr. Johnson robbing me if I stay in town all the time. If only he wasn't a thief! I believe
I'll  build  a  lumber  yard  on half that lot Charles left me. If only Frank didn't holler so loud about me building a saloon on the other half!
Well,  I  shall  build  the saloon just as soon as I get enough money ahead, no matter how he takes on. If only Frank wasn't so thin skinned. Oh,
God, if only I wasn't going to have a baby at this of all times! In a little while I'll be so big I can't go out. Oh, God, if only I wasn't going
to have a baby! And oh, God, if the damned Yankees will only let me alone! If--"

If!  If!  If! There were so many ifs in life, never any certainty of anything, never any sense of security, always the dread of losing everything
and  being  cold  and  hungry  again.  Of course, Frank was making a little more money now, but Frank was always ailing with colds and frequently
forced  to  stay in bed for days. Suppose he should become an invalid. No, she could not afford to count on Frank for much. She must not count on
anything or anybody but herself. And what she could earn seemed so pitiably small. Oh, what would she do if the Yankees came and took it all away
from her? If! If! If!

Half  of what she made every month went to Will at Tara, part to Rhett to repay his loan and the rest she hoarded. No miser ever counted his gold
oftener than she and no miser ever had greater fear of losing it. She would not put the money in the bank, for it might fail or the Yankees might
confiscate it. So she carried what she could with her, tucked into her corset, and hid small wads of bills about the house, under loose bricks on
the  hearth, in her scrap bag, between the pages of the Bible. And her temper grew shorter and shorter as the weeks went by, for every dollar she
saved would be just one more dollar to lose if disaster descended.

Frank,  Pitty  and the servants bore her outbursts with maddening kindness, attributing her bad disposition to her pregnancy, never realizing the
true  cause.  Frank knew that pregnant women must be humored, so he put his pride in his pocket and said nothing more about her running the mills
and her going about town at such a time, as no lady should do. Her conduct was a constant embarrassment to him but he reckoned he could endure it
for  a while longer. After the baby came, he knew she would be the same sweet, feminine girl he had courted. But in spite of everything he did to
appease her, she continued to have her tantrums and often he thought she acted like one possessed.

No  one seemed to realize what really possessed her, what drove her like a mad woman. It was a passion to get her affairs in order before she had
to  retire  behind  doors,  to  have as much money as possible in case the deluge broke upon her again, to have a stout levee of cash against the
rising tide of Yankee hate. Money was the obsession dominating her mind these days. When she thought of the baby at all, it was with baffled rage
at the untimeliness of it.

"Death and taxes and childbirth! There's never any convenient time for any of them!"



Atlanta had been scandalized enough when Scarlett, a woman, began operating the sawmill but, as time went by, the town decided there was no limit
to  what  she  would do. Her sharp trading was shocking, especially when her poor mother had been a Robillard, and it was positively indecent the
way  she  kept on going about the streets when everyone knew she was pregnant. No respectable white woman and few negroes ever went outside their
homes  from the moment they first suspected they were with child, and Mrs. Merriwether declared indignantly that from the way Scarlett was acting
she was likely to have the baby on the public streets.

But  all  the  previous criticism of her conduct was as nothing compared with the buzz of gossip that now went through the town. Scarlett was not
only trafficking with the Yankees but was giving every appearance of really liking it!

Mrs.  Merriwether and many other Southerners were also doing business with the newcomers from the North, but the difference was that they did not
like  it  and  plainly  showed  they  did not like it. And Scarlett did, or seemed to, which was just as bad. She had actually taken tea with the
Yankee  officers'  wives  in  their  homes!  In  fact, she had done practically everything short of inviting them into her own home, and the town
guessed she would do even that, except for Aunt Pitty and Frank.

Scarlett  knew  the  town was talking but she did not care, could not afford to care. She still hated the Yankees with as fierce a hate as on the
day  when they tried to burn Tara, but she could dissemble that hate. She knew that if she was going to make money, she would have to make it out
of the Yankees, and she had learned that buttering them up with smiles and kind words was the surest way to get their business for her mill.

Some  day  when  she was very rich and her money was hidden away where the Yankees could not find it, then, then she would tell them exactly what
she  thought  of them, tell them how she hated and loathed and despised them. And what a joy that would be! But until that time came, it was just
plain common sense to get along with them. And if that was hypocrisy, let Atlanta make the most of it.

She  discovered  that  making  friends with the Yankee officers was as easy as shooting birds on the ground. They were lonely exiles in a hostile
land  and  many  of  them  were starved for polite feminine associations in a town where respectable women drew their skirts aside in passing and
looked as if they would like to spit on them. Only the prostitutes and the negro women had kind words for them. But Scarlett was obviously a lady
and a lady of family, for all that she worked, and they thrilled to her flashing smile and the pleasant light in her green eyes.

Frequently  when  Scarlett sat in her buggy talking to them and making her dimples play, her dislike for them rose so strong that it was hard not
to curse them to their faces. But she restrained herself and she found that twisting Yankee men around her finger was no more difficult than that
same  diversion  had  been  with  Southern  men. Only this was no diversion but a grim business. The role she enacted was that of a refined sweet
Southern lady in distress. With an air of dignified reserve she was able to keep her victims at their proper distance, but there was nevertheless
a graciousness in her manner which left a certain warmth in the Yankee officers' memories of Mrs. Kennedy.

This  warmth  was  very  profitable--as  Scarlett had intended it to be. Many of the officers of the garrison, not knowing how long they would be
stationed in Atlanta, had sent for their wives and families. As the hotels and boarding houses were overflowing, they were building small houses;
and they were glad to buy their lumber from the gracious Mrs. Kennedy, who treated them more politely than anyone else in town. The Carpetbaggers
and  Scallawags  also,  who  were building fine homes and stores and hotels with their new wealth, found it more pleasant to do business with her
than with the former Confederate soldiers who were courteous but with a courtesy more formal and cold than outspoken hate.

So,  because  she  was  pretty and charming and could appear quite helpless and forlorn at times, they gladly patronized her lumber yard and also
Frank's  store,  feeling  that  they  should help a plucky little woman who apparently had only a shiftless husband to support her. And Scarlett,
watching the business grow, felt that she was safeguarding not only the present with Yankee money but the future with Yankee friends.

Keeping  her  relations  with  the  Yankee  officers  on  the plane she desired was easier than she expected, for they all seemed to be in awe of
Southern ladies, but Scarlett soon found that their wives presented a problem she had not anticipated. Contacts with the Yankee women were not of
her  seeking.  She  would  have  been glad to avoid them but she could not, for the officers' wives were determined to meet her. They had an avid
curiosity  about  the  South  and  Southern  women,  and Scarlett gave them their first opportunity to satisfy it. Other Atlanta women would have
nothing  to  do  with them and even refused to bow to them in church, so when business brought Scarlett to their homes, she was like an answer to
prayer.  Often when Scarlett sat in her buggy in front of a Yankee home talking of uprights and shingles with the man of the house, the wife came
out  to  join  in  the  conversation or insist that she come inside for a cup of tea. Scarlett seldom refused, no matter how distasteful the idea
might  be, for she always hoped to have an opportunity to suggest tactfully that they do their trading at Frank's store. But her self-control was
severely tested many times, because of the personal questions they asked and because of the smug and condescending attitude they displayed toward
all things Southern.

Accepting  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  as  revelation  second  only  to the Bible, the Yankee women all wanted to know about the bloodhounds which every
Southerner kept to track down runaway slaves. And they never believed her when she told them she had only seen one bloodhound in all her life and
it  was  a small mild dog and not a huge ferocious mastiff. They wanted to know about the dreadful branding irons which planters used to mark the
faces  of  their  slaves and the cat-o'-nine-tails with which they beat them to death, and they evidenced what Scarlett felt was a very nasty and
ill-bred  interest  in  slave concubinage. Especially did she resent this in view of the enormous increase in mulatto babies in Atlanta since the
Yankee soldiers had settled in the town.

Any  other  Atlanta  woman  would  have  expired  in  rage at having to listen to such bigoted ignorance but Scarlett managed to control herself.
Assisting  her in this was the fact that they aroused her contempt more than her anger. After all, they were Yankees and no one expected anything
better from Yankees. So their unthinking insults to her state, her people and their morals, glanced off and never struck deep enough to cause her
more than a well-concealed sneer until an incident occurred which made her sick with rage and showed her, if she needed any showing, how wide was
the gap between North and South and how utterly impossible it was to bridge it.

While  driving home with Uncle Peter one afternoon, she passed the house into which were crowded the families of three officers who were building
their  own  homes  with Scarlett's lumber. The three wives were standing in the walk as she drove by and they waved to her to stop. Coming out to
the carriage block they greeted her in accents that always made her feel that one could forgive Yankees almost anything except their voices.

"You  are  just  the person I want to see, Mrs. Kennedy," said a tall thin woman from Maine. "I want to get some information about this benighted
town."

Scarlett swallowed the insult to Atlanta with the contempt it deserved and smiled her best.

"And what can I tell you?"

"My  nurse,  my  Bridget,  has  gone  back North. She said she wouldn't stay another day down here among the 'naygurs' as she calls them. And the
children are just driving me distracted! Do tell me how to go about getting another nurse. I do not know where to apply."

"That  shouldn't  be  difficult,"  said  Scarlett  and  laughed. "If you can find a darky just in from the country who hasn't been spoiled by the
Freedmen's Bureau, you'll have the best kind of servant possible. Just stand at your gate here and ask every darky woman who passes and I'm sure-
-"

The three women broke into indignant outcries.

"Do you think I'd trust my babies to a black nigger?" cried the Maine woman. "I want a good Irish girl."

"I'm afraid you'll find no Irish servants in Atlanta," answered Scarlett, coolness in her voice. "Personally, I've never seen a white servant and
I  shouldn't  care  to  have one in my house. And," she could not keep a slight note of sarcasm from her words, "I assure you that darkies aren't
cannibals and are quite trustworthy."

"Goodness, no! I wouldn't have one in my house. The idea!"

"I wouldn't trust them any farther than I could see them and as for letting them handle my babies . . ."

Scarlett  thought  of  the kind, gnarled hands of Mammy worn rough in Ellen's service and hers and Wade's. What did these strangers know of black
hands, how dear and comforting they could be, how unerringly they knew how to soothe, to pat, to fondle? She laughed shortly.

"It's strange you should feel that way when it was you all who freed them."

"Lor'!  Not I, dearie," laughed the Maine woman. "I never saw a nigger till I came South last month and I don't care if I never see another. They
give me the creeps. I wouldn't trust one of them. . . ."

For  some  moments  Scarlett  had  been  conscious  that Uncle Peter was breathing hard and sitting up very straight as he stared steadily at the
horse's  ears.  Her  attention  was  called  to him more forcibly when the Maine woman broke off suddenly with a laugh and pointed him out to her
companions.

"Look  at  that  old  nigger  swell up like a toad," she giggled. "I'll bet he's an old pet of yours, isn't he? You Southerners don't know how to
treat niggers. You spoil them to death."

Peter  sucked  in  his  breath  and his wrinkled brow showed deep furrows but he kept his eyes straight ahead. He had never had the term "nigger"
applied  to him by a white person in all his life. By other negroes, yes. But never by a white person. And to be called untrustworthy and an "old
pet," he, Peter, who had been the dignified mainstay of the Hamilton family for years!

Scarlett  felt,  rather  than  saw,  the black chin begin to shake with hurt pride, and a killing rage swept over her. She had listened with calm
contempt  while  these  women had underrated the Confederate Army, blackguarded Jeff Davis and accused Southerners of murder and torture of their
slaves.  If  it  were  to her advantage she would have endured insults about her own virtue and honesty. But the knowledge that they had hurt the
faithful old darky with their stupid remarks fired her like a match in gunpowder. For a moment she looked at the big horse pistol in Peter's belt
and  her  hands  itched  for  the feel of it. They deserved killing, these insolent, ignorant, arrogant conquerors. But she bit down on her teeth
until  her jaw muscles stood out, reminding herself that the time had not yet come when she could tell the Yankees just what she thought of them.
Some day, yes. My God, yes! But not yet.

"Uncle Peter is one of our family," she said, her voice shaking. "Good afternoon. Drive on, Peter."

Peter laid the whip on the horse so suddenly that the startled animal jumped forward and as the buggy jounced off, Scarlett heard the Maine woman
say with puzzled accents: "Her family? You don't suppose she meant a relative? He's exceedingly black."

God damn them! They ought to be wiped off the face of the earth. If ever I get money enough, I'll spit in all their faces! I'll--

She  glanced  at  Peter  and saw that a tear was trickling down his nose. Instantly a passion of tenderness, of grief for his humiliation swamped
her,  made  her eyes sting. It was as though someone had been senselessly brutal to a child. Those women had hurt Uncle Peter--Peter who had been
through  the  Mexican War with old Colonel Hamilton, Peter who had held his master in his arms when he died, who had raised Melly and Charles and
looked after the feckless, foolish Pittypat, "pertecked" her when she refugeed, and "'quired" a horse to bring her back from Macon through a war-
torn country after the surrender. And they said they wouldn't trust niggers!

"Peter," she said, her voice breaking as she put her hand on his thin arm. "I'm ashamed of you for crying. What do you care? They aren't anything
but damned Yankees!"

"Dey  talked  in  front  of me lak Ah wuz a mule an' couldn' unnerstan' dem--lak Ah wuz a Affikun an' din' know whut dey wuz talkin' 'bout," said
Peter,  giving  a  tremendous sniff. "An' dey call me a nigger an' Ah' ain' never been call a nigger by no w'ite folks, an' dey call me a ole pet
an'  say dat niggers ain' ter be trus'ed! Me not ter be trus'ed! Why, w'en de ole Cunnel wuz dyin' he say ter me, 'You, Peter! You look affer mah
chillun. Tek keer of yo' young Miss Pittypat,' he say, ''cause she ain' got no mo' sense dan a hoppergrass.' An' Ah done tek keer of her good all
dese y'ars--"

"Nobody but the Angel Gabriel could have done better," said Scarlett soothingly. "We just couldn't have lived without you."

"Yas'm,  thankee  kinely,  Ma'm.  Ah knows it an' you knows it, but dem Yankee folks doan know it an' dey doan want ter know it. Huccome dey come
mixin' in our bizness, Miss Scarlett? Dey doan unnerstan' us Confedruts."

Scarlett  said  nothing for she was still burning with the wrath she had not exploded in the Yankee women's faces. The two drove home in silence.
Peter's  sniffles  stopped and his underlip began to protrude gradually until it stuck out alarmingly. His indignation was mounting, now that the
initial hurt was subsiding.

Scarlett  thought: What damnably queer people Yankees are! Those women seemed to think that because Uncle Peter was black, he had no ears to hear
with  and no feelings, as tender as their own, to be hurt. They did not know that negroes had to be handled gently, as though they were children,
directed,  praised,  petted,  scolded. They didn't understand negroes or the relations between the negroes and their former masters. Yet they had
fought a war to free them. And having freed them, they didn't want to have anything to do with them, except to use them to terrorize Southerners.
They  didn't  like  them, didn't trust them, didn't understand them, and yet their constant cry was that Southerners didn't know how to get along
with them.

Not  trust  a  darky!  Scarlett trusted them far more than most white people, certainly more than she trusted any Yankee. There were qualities of
loyalty and tirelessness and love in them that no strain could break, no money could buy. She thought of the faithful few who remained at Tara in
the  face  of the Yankee invasion when they could have fled or joined the troops for lives of leisure. But they had stayed. She thought of Dilcey
toiling in the cotton fields beside her, of Pork risking his life in neighboring hen houses that the family might eat, of Mammy coming to Atlanta
with  her  to keep her from doing wrong. She thought of the servants of her neighbors who had stood loyally beside their white owners, protecting
their  mistresses  while  the  men were at the front, refugeeing with them through the terrors of the war, nursing the wounded, burying the dead,
comforting  the bereaved, working, begging, stealing to keep food on the tables. And even now, with the Freedmen's Bureau promising all manner of
wonders,  they  still stuck with their white folks and worked much harder than they ever worked in slave times. But the Yankees didn't understand
these things and would never understand them.

"Yet they set you free," she said aloud.

"No,  Ma'm! Dey din' sot me free. Ah wouldn' let no sech trash sot me free," said Peter indignantly. "Ah still b'longs ter Miss Pitty an' w'en Ah
dies  she  gwine lay me in de Hamilton buhyin' groun' whar Ah b'longs. . . . Mah Miss gwine ter be in a state w'en Ah tells her 'bout how you let
dem Yankee women 'sult me."

"I did no such thing!" cried Scarlett, startled.

"You  did  so,  Miss Scarlett," said Peter, pushing out his lip even farther. "De pint is, needer you nor me had no bizness bein' wid Yankees, so
dey  could  'sult  me.  Ef you hadn't talked wid dem, dey wouldn' had no chance ter treat me lak a mule or a Affikun. An' you din' tek up fer me,
needer."

"I did, too!" said Scarlett, stung by the criticism. "Didn't I tell them you were one of the family?"

"Dat  ain'  tekkin' up. Dat's jes' a fac'," said Peter. "Miss Scarlett, you ain' got no bizness havin' no truck wid Yankees. Ain' no other ladies
doin'  it.  You  wouldn'  ketch Miss Pitty wipin' her lil shoes on sech trash. An' she ain' gwine lake it w'en she hear 'bout whut dey said 'bout
me."

Peter's  criticism hurt worse than anything Frank or Aunt Pitty or the neighbors had said and it so annoyed her she longed to shake the old darky
until  his  toothless gums clapped together. What Peter said was true but she hated to hear it from a negro and a family negro, too. Not to stand
high in the opinion of one's servants was as humiliating a thing as could happen to a Southerner.

"A ole pet!" Peter grumbled. "Ah specs Miss Pitty ain't gwine want me ter drive you roun' no mo' after dat. No, Ma'm!"

"Aunt Pitty will want you to drive me as usual," she said sternly, "so let's hear no more about it."

"Ah'll  git  a mizry in mak back," warned Peter darkly. "Mah back huttin' me so bad dis minute Ah kain sceercely set up. Mah Miss ain' gwine want
me  ter do no drivin' w'en Ah got a mizry. . . . Miss Scarlett, it ain' gwine do you no good ter stan' high wid de Yankees an' de w'ite trash, ef
yo' own folks doan 'prove of you."

That  was  as  accurate  a  summing  up  of the situation as could be made and Scarlett relapsed into infuriated silence. Yes, the conquerors did
approve of her and her family and her neighbors did not. She knew all the things the town was saying about her. And now even Peter disapproved of
her to the point of not caring to be seen in public with her. That was the last straw.

Heretofore she had been careless of public opinion, careless and a little contemptuous. But Peter's words caused fierce resentment to burn in her
breast, drove her to a defensive position, made her suddenly dislike her neighbors as much as she disliked the Yankees.

"Why  should  they  care  what  I do?" she thought. "They must think I enjoy associating with Yankees and working like a field hand. They're just
making a hard job harder for me. But I don't care what they think. I won't let myself care. I can't afford to care now. But some day--some day--"

Oh  some  day!  When there was security in her world again, then she would sit back and fold her hands and be a great lady as Ellen had been. She
would  be  helpless  and  sheltered,  as  a lady should be, and then everyone would approve of her. Oh, how grand she would be when she had money
again!  Then  she  could  permit herself to be kind and gentle, as Ellen had been, and thoughtful of other people and of the proprieties, to. She
would  not  be  driven  by  fears, day and night, and life would be a placid, unhurried affair. She would have time to play with her children and
listen  to  their  lessons.  There  would  be  long  warm afternoons when ladies would call and, amid the rustlings of taffeta petticoats and the
rhythmic  harsh  cracklings of palmetto fans, she would serve tea and delicious sandwiches and cakes and leisurely gossip the hours away. And she
would  be  so kind to those who were suffering misfortune, take baskets to the poor and soup and jelly to the sick and "air" those less fortunate
in  her  fine  carriage.  She  would be a lady in the true Southern manner, as her mother had been. And then, everyone would love her as they had
loved Ellen and they would say how unselfish she was and call her "Lady Bountiful."

Her  pleasure  in these thoughts of the future was undimmed by any realization that she had no real desire to be unselfish or charitable or kind.
All  she  wanted  was  the reputation for possessing these qualities. But the meshes of her brain were too wide, too coarse, to filter such small
differences. It was enough that some day, when she had money, everyone would approve of her.

Some day! But not now. Not now, in spite of what anyone might say of her. Now, there was no time to be a great lady.

Peter  was  as  good as his word. Aunt Pitty did get into a state, and Peter's misery developed overnight to such proportions that he never drove
the buggy again. Thereafter Scarlett drove alone and the calluses which had begun to leave her palms came back again.

So  the spring months went by, the cool rains of April passing into the warm balm of green May weather. The weeks were packed with work and worry
and the handicaps of increasing pregnancy, with old friends growing cooler and her family increasingly more kind, more maddeningly solicitous and
more  completely  blind to what was driving her. During those days of anxiety and struggle there was only one dependable, understanding person in
her  world, and that person was Rhett Butler. It was odd that he of all people should appear in this light, for he was as unstable as quicksilver
and as perverse as a demon fresh from the pit. But he gave her sympathy, something she had never had from anyone and never expected from him.

Frequently  he  was  out  of town on those mysterious trips to New Orleans which he never explained but which she felt sure, in a faintly jealous
way, were connected with a woman--or women. But after Uncle Peter's refusal to drive her, he remained in Atlanta for longer and longer intervals.

While in town, he spent most of his time gambling in the rooms above the Girl of the Period Saloon, or in Belle Watling's bar hobnobbing with the
wealthier  of  the Yankees and Carpetbaggers in money-making schemes which made the townspeople detest him even more than his cronies. He did not
call  at the house now, probably in deference to the feelings of Frank and Pitty who would have been outraged at a male caller while Scarlett was
in  a  delicate  condition.  But  she  met  him by accident almost every day. Time and again, he came riding up to her buggy when she was passing
through  lonely  stretches of Peachtree road and Decatur road where the mills lay. He always drew rein and talked and sometimes he tied his horse
to  the  back  of  the  buggy  and  drove her on her rounds. She tired more easily these days than she liked to admit and she was always silently
grateful when he took the reins. He always left her before they reached the town again but all Atlanta knew about their meetings, and it gave the
gossips something new to add to the long list of Scarlett's affronts to the proprieties.

She  wondered  occasionally  if  these meetings were not more than accidental. They became more and more numerous as the weeks went by and as the
tension  in  town  heightened  over  negro outrages. But why did he seek her out, now of all times when she looked her worst? Certainly he had no
designs  upon  her  if  he  had ever had any, and she was beginning to doubt even this. It had been months since he made any joking references to
their  distressing  scene  at  the  Yankee  jail.  He  never mentioned Ashley and her love for him, or made any coarse and ill-bred remarks about
"coveting  her."  She thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie, so she did not ask for an explanation of their frequent meetings. And finally she
decided that, because he had little to do besides gamble and had few enough nice friends in Atlanta, he sought her out solely for companionship's
sake.

Whatever his reason might be, she found his company most welcome. He listened to her moans about lost customers and bad debts, the swindling ways
of  Mr.  Johnson  and  the  incompetency of Hugh. He applauded her triumphs, where Frank merely smiled indulgently and Pitty said "Dear me!" in a
dazed  manner.  She  was  sure  that  he frequently threw business her way, for he knew all the rich Yankees and Carpetbaggers intimately, but he
always  denied  being  helpful. She knew him for what he was and she never trusted him, but her spirits always rose with pleasure at the sight of
him riding around the curve of a shady road on his big black horse. When he climbed into the buggy and took the reins from her and threw her some
impertinent  remark, she felt young and gay and attractive again, for all her worries and her increasing bulk. She could talk to him about almost
everything,  with  no  care for concealing her motives or her real opinions and she never ran out of things to say as she did with Frank--or even
with Ashley, if she must be honest with herself. But of course, in all her conversations with Ashley there were so many things which could not be
said,  for  honor's  sake, that the sheer force of them inhibited other remarks. It was comforting to have a friend like Rhett, now that for some
unaccountable reason he had decided to be on good behavior with her. Very comforting, for she had so few friends these days.

"Rhett,"  she asked stormily, shortly after Uncle Peter's ultimatum, "why do folks in this town treat me so scurvily and talk about me so? It's a
toss-up who they talk worst about, me or the Carpetbaggers! I've minded my own business and haven't done anything wrong and--"

"If you haven't done anything wrong, it's because you haven't had the opportunity, and perhaps they dimly realize it."

"Oh, do be serious! They make me so mad. All I've done is try to make a little money and--"

"All  you've  done  is  to  be  different  from  other  women  and  you've  made a little success at it. As I've told you before, that is the one
unforgivable  sin  in  any  society.  Be different and be damned! Scarlett, the mere fact that you've made a success of your mill is an insult to
every man who hasn't succeeded. Remember, a well-bred female's place is in the home and she should know nothing about this busy, brutal world."

"But if I had stayed in my home, I wouldn't have had any home left to stay in."

"The inference is that you should have starved genteelly and with pride."

"Oh,  fiddle-dee-dee!  But look at Mrs. Merriwether. She's selling pies to Yankees and that's worse than running a sawmill, and Mrs. Elsing takes
in sewing and keeps boarders, and Fanny paints awful-looking china things that nobody wants and everybody buys to help her and--"

"But  you  miss  the  point,  my pet. They aren't successful and so they aren't affronting the hot Southern pride of their men folks. The men can
still  say, 'Poor sweet sillies, how hard they try! Well, I'll let them think they're helping.' And besides, the ladies you mentioned don't enjoy
having  to  work.  They let it be known that they are only doing it until some man comes along to relieve them of their unwomanly burdens. And so
everybody  feels  sorry  for them. But obviously you do like to work and obviously you aren't going to let any man tend to your business for you,
and so no one can feel sorry for you. And Atlanta is never going to forgive you for that. It's so pleasant to feel sorry for people."

"I wish you'd be serious, sometimes."

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  Oriental  proverb:  'The dogs bark but the caravan passes on?' Let them bark, Scarlett. I fear nothing will stop your
caravan."

"But why should they mind my making a little money?"

"You  can't  have everything, Scarlett. You can either make money in your present unladylike manner and meet cold shoulders everywhere you go, or
you can be poor and genteel and have lots of friends. You've made your choice."

"I won't be poor," she said swiftly. "But--it is the right choice, isn't it?"

"If it's money you want most."

"Yes, I want money more than anything else in the world."

"Then you've made the only choice. But there's a penalty attached, as there is to most things you want. It's loneliness."

That  silenced  her  for  a  moment. It was true. When she stopped to think about it, she was a little lonely--lonely for feminine companionship.
During  the  war  years  she  had  had  Ellen to visit when she felt blue. And since Ellen's death, there had always been Melanie, though she and
Melanie had nothing in common except the hard work at Tara. Now there was no one, for Aunt Pitty had no conception of life beyond her small round
of gossip.

"I  think--I  think," she began hesitantly, "that I've always been lonely where women were concerned. It isn't just my working that makes Atlanta
ladies  dislike  me.  They  just  don't like me anyway. No woman ever really liked me, except Mother. Even my sisters. I don't know why, but even
before the war, even before I married Charlie, ladies didn't seem to approve of anything I did--"

"You forget Mrs. Wilkes," said Rhett and his eyes gleamed maliciously. "She has always approved of you up to the hilt. I daresay she'd approve of
anything you did, short of murder."

Scarlett thought grimly: "She's even approved of murder," and she laughed contemptuously.

"Oh,  Melly!"  she said, and then, ruefully: "It's certainly not to my credit that Melly is the only woman who approves of me, for she hasn't the
sense of a guinea hen. If she had any sense--" She stopped in some confusion.

"If  she  had  any  sense,  she'd  realize  a few things and she couldn't approve," Rhett finished. "Well, you know more about that than I do, of
course."

"Oh, damn your memory and your bad manners!"

"I'll  pass  over  your unjustified rudeness with the silence it deserves and return to our former subject. Make up your mind to this. If you are
different,  you are isolated, not only from people of your own age but from those of your parents' generation and from your children's generation
too.  They'll  never  understand  you and they'll be shocked no matter what you do. But your grandparents would probably be proud of you and say:
'There's a chip off the old block,' and your grandchildren will sigh enviously and say: 'What an old rip Grandma must have been!' and they'll try
to be like you."

Scarlett laughed with amusement.

"Sometimes  you  do hit on the truth! Now there was my Grandma Robillard. Mammy used to hold her over my head whenever I was naughty. Grandma was
as  cold  as  an icicle and strict about her manners and everybody else's manners, but she married three times and had any number of duels fought
over her and she wore rouge and the most shockingly low-cut dresses and no--well, er--not much under her dresses."

"And you admired her tremendously, for all that you tried to be like your mother! I had a grandfather on the Butler side who was a pirate."

"Not really! A walk-the-plank kind?"

"I  daresay  he made people walk the plank if there was any money to be made that way. At any rate, he made enough money to leave my father quite
wealthy.  But  the  family always referred to him carefully as a 'sea captain.' He was killed in a saloon brawl long before I was born. His death
was,  needless  to  say,  a great relief to his children, for the old gentleman was drunk most of the time and when in his cups was apt to forget
that  he  was a retired sea captain and give reminiscences that curled his children's hair. However, I admired him and tried to copy him far more
than  I  ever  did  my  father, for Father is an amiable gentleman full of honorable habits and pious saws--so you see how it goes. I'm sure your
children  won't  approve of you, Scarlett, any more than Mrs. Merriwether and Mrs. Elsing and their broods approve of you now. Your children will
probably  be soft, prissy creatures, as the children of hard-bitten characters usually are. And to make them worse, you, like every other mother,
are  probably  determined  that they shall never know the hardships you've known. And that's all wrong. Hardships make or break people. So you'll
have to wait for approval from your grandchildren."

"I wonder what our grandchildren will be like!"

"Are you suggesting by that 'our' that you and I will have mutual grandchildren? Fie, Mrs. Kennedy!"

Scarlett,  suddenly  conscious  of  her  error of speech, went red. It was more than his joking words that shamed her, for she was suddenly aware
again  of  her  thickening  body.  In  no way had either of them ever hinted at her condition and she had always kept the lap robe high under her
armpits  when with him, even on warm days, comforting herself in the usual feminine manner with the belief that she did not show at all when thus
covered, and she was suddenly sick with quick rage at her own condition and shame that he should know.

"You get out of this buggy, you dirty-minded varmit," she said, her voice shaking.

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the kind," he returned calmly. "It'll be dark before you get home and there's a new colony of darkies living in tents and
shanties  near the next spring, mean niggers I've been told, and I see no reason why you should give the impulsive Ku Klux a cause for putting on
their nightshirts and riding abroad this evening."

"Get  out!" she cried, tugging at the reins and suddenly nausea overwhelmed her. He stopped the horse quickly, passed her two clean handkerchiefs
and  held  her  head over the side of the buggy with some skill. The afternoon sun, slanting low through the newly leaved trees, spun sickeningly
for  a few moments in a swirl of gold and green. When the spell had passed, she put her head in her hands and cried from sheer mortification. Not
only  had  she  vomited before a man--in itself as horrible a contretemps as could overtake a woman--but by doing so, the humiliating fact of her
pregnancy  must now be evident. She felt that she could never look him in the face again. To have this happen with him, of all people, with Rhett
who had no respect for women! She cried, expecting some coarse and jocular remark from him which she would never be able to forget.

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  he  said quietly. "And you are a fool, if you are crying for shame. Come, Scarlett, don't be a child. Surely you must know
that, not being blind, I knew you were pregnant."

She  said  "Oh"  in  a stunned voice and tightened her fingers over her crimson face. The word itself horrified her. Frank always referred to her
pregnancy embarrassedly as "your condition," Gerald had been wont to say delicately "in the family way," when he had to mention such matters, and
ladies genteelly referred to pregnancy as being "in a fix."

"You are a child if you thought I didn't know, for all your smothering yourself under that hot lap robe. Of course, I knew. Why else do you think
I've been--"

He stopped suddenly and a silence fell between them. He picked up the reins and clucked to the horse. He went on talking quietly and as his drawl
fell pleasantly on her ears, some of the color faded from her down-tucked face.

"I  didn't  think  you  could be so shocked, Scarlett. I thought you were a sensible person and I'm disappointed. Can it be possible that modesty
still  lingers  in  your breast? I'm afraid I'm not a gentleman to have mentioned the matter. And I know I'm not a gentleman, in view of the fact
that  pregnant  women  do not embarrass me as they should. I find it possible to treat them as normal creatures and not look at the ground or the
sky  or  anywhere  else  in  the universe except their waist lines--and then cast at them those furtive glances I've always thought the height of
indecency.  Why  should I? It's a perfectly normal state. The Europeans are far more sensible than we are. They compliment expectant mothers upon
their expectations. While I wouldn't advise going that far, still it's more sensible than our way of trying to ignore it. It's a normal state and
women should be proud of it, instead of hiding behind closed doors as if they'd committed a crime."

"Proud!" she cried in a strangled voice. "Proud--ugh!"

"Aren't you proud to be having a child?"

"Oh dear God, no! I--I hate babies!"

"You mean--Frank's baby."

"No--anybody's baby."

For a moment she went sick again at this new error of speech, but his voice went on as easily as though he had not marked it.

"Then we're different. I like babies."

"You like them?" she cried, looking up, so startled at the statement that she forgot her embarrassment. "What a liar you are!"

"I  like  babies  and I like little children, till they begin to grow up and acquire adult habits of thought and adult abilities to lie and cheat
and be dirty. That can't be news to you. You know I like Wade Hampton a lot, for all that he isn't the boy he ought to be."

That was true, thought Scarlett, suddenly marveling. He did seem to enjoy playing with Wade and often brought him presents.

"Now  that  we've brought this dreadful subject into the light and you admit that you expect a baby some time in the not too distant future, I'll
say  something  I've been wanting to say for weeks--two things. The first is that it's dangerous for you to drive alone. You know it. You've been
told  it often enough. If you don't care personally whether or not you are raped, you might consider the consequences. Because of your obstinacy,
you  may  get  yourself  into a situation where your gallant fellow townsmen will be forced to avenge you by stringing up a few darkies. And that
will  bring the Yankees down on them and someone will probably get hanged. Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps one of the reasons the ladies
do  not like you is that your conduct may cause the neck-stretching of their sons and husbands? And furthermore, if the Ku Klux handles many more
negroes,  the  Yankees  are going to tighten up on Atlanta in a way that will make Sherman's conduct look angelic. I know what I'm talking about,
for  I'm  hand in glove with the Yankees. Shameful to state, they treat me as one of them and I hear them talk openly. They mean to stamp out the
Ku  Klux  if  it  means  burning  the  whole town again and hanging every male over ten. That would hurt you, Scarlett. You might lose money. And
there's  no telling where a prairie fire will stop, once it gets started. Confiscation of property, higher taxes, fines for suspected women--I've
heard them all suggested. The Ku Klux--"

"Do you know any Ku Klux? Is Tommy Wellburn or Hugh or--"

He shrugged impatiently.

"How  should  I  know? I'm a renegade, a turncoat, a Scallawag. Would I be likely to know? But I do know men who are suspected by the Yankees and
one  false  move  from them and they are as good as hanged. While I know you would have no regrets at getting your neighbors on the gallows, I do
believe  you'd  regret  losing  your  mills. I see by the stubborn look on your face that you do not believe me and my words are falling on stony
ground. So all I can say is, keep that pistol of yours handy--and when I'm in town, I'll try to be on hand to drive you."

"Rhett, do you really--is it to protect me that you--"

"Yes,  my dear, it is my much advertised chivalry that makes me protect you." The mocking light began to dance in his black eyes and all signs of
earnestness  fled  from his face. "And why? Because of my deep love for you, Mrs. Kennedy. Yes, I have silently hungered and thirsted for you and
worshipped you from afar; but being an honorable man, like Mr. Ashley Wilkes, I have concealed it from you. You are, alas, Frank's wife and honor
has  forbidden  my telling this to you. But even as Mr. Wilkes' honor cracks occasionally, so mine is cracking now and I reveal my secret passion
and my--"

"Oh, for God's sake, hush!" interrupted Scarlett, annoyed as usual when he made her look like a conceited fool, and not caring to have Ashley and
his honor become the subject of further conversation. "What was the other thing you wanted to tell me?"

"What!  You  change  the subject when I am baring a loving but lacerated heart? Well, the other thing is this." The mocking light died out of his
eyes again and his face was dark and quiet.

"I  want  you to do something about this horse. He's stubborn and he's got a mouth as tough as iron. Tires you to drive him, doesn't it? Well, if
he  chose  to  bolt, you couldn't possibly stop him. And if you turned over in a ditch, it might kill your baby and you too. You ought to get the
heaviest curb bit you can, or else let me swap him for a gentle horse with a more sensitive mouth."

She looked up into his blank, smooth face and suddenly her irritation fell away, even as her embarrassment had disappeared after the conversation
about  her  pregnancy.  He  had been kind, a few moments before, to put her at her ease when she was wishing that she were dead. And he was being
kinder now and very thoughtful about the horse. She felt a rush of gratitude to him and she wondered why he could not always be this way.

"The  horse  is  hard  to drive," she agreed meekly. "Sometimes my arms ache all night from tugging at him. You do what you think best about him,
Rhett."

His eyes sparkled wickedly.

"That  sounds  very  sweet  and  feminine,  Mrs.  Kennedy. Not in your usual masterful vein at all. Well, it only takes proper handling to make a
clinging vine out of you."

She scowled and her temper came back.

"You  will get out of this buggy this time, or I will hit you with the whip. I don't know why I put up with you--why I try to be nice to you. You
have no manners. You have no morals. You are nothing but a-- Well, get out. I mean it."

But  when  he had climbed down and untied his horse from the back of the buggy and stood in the twilight road, grinning tantalizingly at her, she
could not smother her own grin as she drove off.

Yes,  he  was coarse, he was tricky, he was unsafe to have dealings with, and you never could tell when the dull weapon you put into his hands in
an unguarded moment might turn into the keenest of blades. But, after all, he was as stimulating as--well, as a surreptitious glass of brandy!

During  these  months  Scarlett  had learned the use of brandy. When she came home in the late afternoons, damp from the rain, cramped and aching
from  long  hours  in  the  buggy, nothing sustained her except the thought of the bottle hidden in her top bureau drawer, locked against Mammy's
prying  eyes.  Dr.  Meade  had not thought to warn her that a woman in her condition should not drink, for it never occurred to him that a decent
woman  would  drink anything stronger than scuppernong wine. Except, of course, a glass of champagne at a wedding or a hot toddy when confined to
bed  with a hard cold. Of course, there were unfortunate women who drank, to the eternal disgrace of their families, just as there were women who
were  insane  or  divorced or who believed, with Miss Susan B. Anthony, that women should have the vote. But as much as the doctor disapproved of
Scarlett, he never suspected her of drinking.

Scarlett  had  found that a drink of neat brandy before supper helped immeasurably and she would always chew coffee or gargle cologne to disguise
the  smell. Why were people so silly about women drinking, when men could and did get reeling drunk whenever they wanted to? Sometimes when Frank
lay  snoring  beside  her and sleep would not come, when she lay tossing, torn with fears of poverty, dreading the Yankees, homesick for Tara and
yearning  for  Ashley,  she thought she would go crazy were it not for the brandy bottle. And when the pleasant familiar warmth stole through her
veins,  her  troubles  began  to fade. After three drinks, she could always say to herself: "I'll think of these things tomorrow when I can stand
them better."

But there were some nights when even brandy would not still the ache in her heart, the ache that was even stronger than fear of losing the mills,
the ache to see Tara again. Atlanta, with its noises, its new buildings, its strange faces, its narrow streets crowded with horses and wagons and
bustling  crowds sometimes seemed to stifle her. She loved Atlanta but--oh, for the sweet peace and country quiet of Tara, the red fields and the
dark  pines about it! Oh, to be back at Tara, no matter how hard the life might be! And to be near Ashley, just to see him, to hear him speak, to
be  sustained  by  the knowledge of his love! Each letter from Melanie, saying that they were well, each brief note from Will reporting about the
plowing, the planting, the growing of the cotton made her long anew to be home again.

I'll go home in June. I can't do anything here after that. I'll go home for a couple of months, she thought, and her heart would rise. She did go
home in June but not as she longed to go, for early in that month came a brief message from Will that Gerald was dead.



CHAPTER XXXIX


The  train was very late and the long, deeply blue twilight of June was settling over the countryside when Scarlett alighted in Jonesboro. Yellow
gleams  of  lamplight showed in the stores and houses which remained in the village, but they were few. Here and there were wide gaps between the
buildings  on  the  main street where dwellings had been shelled or burned. Ruined houses with shell holes in their roofs and half the walls torn
away  stared at her, silent and dark. A few saddle horses and mule teams were hitched outside the wooden awning of Bullard's store. The dusty red
road  was empty and lifeless, and the only sounds in the village were a few whoops and drunken laughs that floated on the still twilight air from
a saloon far down the street.

The  depot  had  not  been  rebuilt  since  it was burned in the battle and in its place was only a wooden shelter, with no sides to keep out the
weather.  Scarlett  walked  under  it  and  sat down on one of the empty kegs that were evidently put there for seats. She peered up and down the
street for Will Benteen. Will should have been here to meet her. He should have known she would take the first train possible after receiving his
laconic message that Gerald was dead.

She  had  come  so  hurriedly  that  she  had  in her small carpetbag only a nightgown and a tooth brush, not even a change of underwear. She was
uncomfortable  in the tight black dress she had borrowed from Mrs. Meade, for she had had no time to get mourning clothes for herself. Mrs. Meade
was  thin  now,  and  Scarlett's  pregnancy being advanced, the dress was doubly uncomfortable. Even in her sorrow at Gerald's death, she did not
forget  the  appearance she was making and she looked down at her body with distaste. Her figure was completely gone and her face and ankles were
puffy.  Heretofore  she  had  not cared very much how she looked but now that she would see Ashley within the hour she cared greatly. Even in her
heartbreak,  she  shrank  from  the  thought  of  facing  him when she was carrying another man's child. She loved him and he loved her, and this
unwanted  child  now seemed to her a proof of infidelity to that love. But much as she disliked having him see her with the slenderness gone from
her waist and the lightness from her step, it was something she could not escape now.

She  patted  her foot impatiently. Will should have met her. Of course, she could go over to Bullard's and inquire after him or ask someone there
to  drive  her  over  to  Tara,  should  she  find he had been unable to come. But she did not want to go to Bullard's. It was Saturday night and
probably  half  the  men  of  the  County  would  be  there.  She  did not want to display her condition in this poorly fitting black dress which
accentuated  rather than hid her figure. And she did not want to hear the kindly sympathy that would be poured out about Gerald. She did not want
sympathy.  She  was  afraid  she would cry if anyone even mentioned his name to her. And she wouldn't cry. She knew if she once began it would be
like  the  time  she cried into the horse's mane, that dreadful night when Atlanta fell and Rhett had left her on the dark road outside the town,
terrible tears that tore her heart and could not be stopped.

No, she wouldn't cry! She felt the lump in her throat rising again, as it had done so often since the news came, but crying wouldn't do any good.
It  would  only confuse and weaken her. Why, oh, why hadn't Will or Melanie or the girls written her that Gerald was ailing? She would have taken
the  first  train  to  Tara  to  care  for him, brought a doctor from Atlanta if necessary. The fools--all of them! Couldn't they manage anything
without her? She couldn't be in two places at once and the good Lord knew she was doing her best for them all in Atlanta.

She  twisted about on the keg, becoming nervous and fidgety as Will still did not come. Where was he? Then she heard the scrunching of cinders on
the railroad tracks behind her and, twisting her body, she saw Alex Fontaine crossing the tracks toward a wagon, a sack of oats on his shoulder.

"Good  Lord!  Isn't  that you, Scarlett?" he cried, dropping the sack and running to take her hand, pleasure written all over his bitter, swarthy
little  face.  "I'm  so glad to see you. I saw Will over at the blacksmith's shop, getting the horse shod. The train was late and he thought he'd
have time. Shall I run fetch him?"

"Yes, please, Alex," she said, smiling in spite of her sorrow. It was good to see a County face again.

"Oh--er--Scarlett," he began awkwardly, still holding her hand, "I'm mighty sorry about your father."

"Thank you," she replied, wishing he had not said it. His words brought up Gerald's florid face and bellowing voice so clearly.

"If  it's  any  comfort to you, Scarlett, we're mighty proud of him around here," Alex continued, dropping her hand. "He--well, we figure he died
like a soldier and in a soldier's cause."

Now  what  did  he  mean by that, she thought confusedly. A soldier? Had someone shot him? Had he gotten into a fight with the Scallawags as Tony
had?  But  she  mustn't hear more. She would cry if she talked about him and she mustn't cry, not until she was safely in the wagon with Will and
out in the country where no stranger could see her. Will wouldn't matter. He was just like a brother.

"Alex, I don't want to talk about it," she said shortly.

"I  don't blame you one bit, Scarlett," said Alex while the dark blood of anger flooded his face. "If it was my sister, I'd--well, Scarlett, I've
never yet said a harsh word about any woman, but personally I think somebody ought to take a rawhide whip to Suellen."

What foolishness was he talking about now, she wondered. What had Suellen to do with it all?

"Everybody  around  here  feels the same way about her, I'm sorry to say. Will's the only one who takes up for her--and, of course, Miss Melanie,
but she's a saint and won't see bad in anyone and--"

"I  said I didn't want to talk about it," she said coldly but Alex did not seem rebuffed. He looked as though he understood her rudeness and that
was  annoying.  She  didn't  want to hear bad tidings about her own family from an outsider, didn't want him to know of her ignorance of what had
happened. Why hadn't Will sent her the full details?

She  wished  Alex  wouldn't look at her so hard. She felt that he realized her condition and it embarrassed her. But what Alex was thinking as he
peered  at her in the twilight was that her face had changed so completely he wondered how he had ever recognized her. Perhaps it was because she
was  going  to  have a baby. Women did look like the devil at such times. And, of course, she must be feeling badly about old man O'Hara. She had
been  his pet. But, no, the change was deeper than that. She really looked as if she had three square meals a day. And the hunted-animal look had
partly gone from her eyes. Now, the eyes which had been fearful and desperate were hard. There was an air of command, assurance and determination
about  her,  even  when  she smiled. Bet she led old Frank a merry life! Yes, she had changed. She was a handsome woman, to be sure, but all that
pretty,  sweet  softness  had gone from her face and that flattering way of looking up at a man, like he knew more than God Almighty, had utterly
vanished.

Well,  hadn't  they  all changed? Alex looked down at his rough clothes and his face fell into its usual bitter lines. Sometimes at night when he
lay  awake,  wondering how his mother was going to get that operation and how poor dead Joe's little boy was going to get an education and how he
was  going  to get money for another mule, he wished the war was still going on, wished it had gone on forever. They didn't know their luck then.
There was always something to eat in the army, even if it was just corn bread, always somebody to give orders and none of this torturing sense of
facing problems that couldn't be solved--nothing to bother about in the army except getting killed. And then there was Dimity Munroe. Alex wanted
to  marry  her  and he knew he couldn't when so many were already looking to him for support. He had loved her for so long and now the roses were
fading  from  her  cheeks  and  the  joy from her eyes. If only Tony hadn't had to run away to Texas. Another man on the place would make all the
difference  in  the  world.  His lovable bad-tempered little brother, penniless somewhere in the West. Yes, they had all changed. And why not? He
sighed heavily.

"I haven't thanked you for what you and Frank did for Tony," he said. "It was you who helped him get away, wasn't it? It was fine of you. I heard
in a roundabout way that he was safe in Texas. I was afraid to write and ask you--but did you or Frank lend him any money? I want to repay--"

"Oh, Alex, please hush! Not now!" cried Scarlett. For once, money meant nothing to her.

Alex was silent for a moment.

"I'll get Will for you," he said, "and we'll all be over tomorrow for the funeral."

As he picked up the sack of oats and turned away, a wobbly-wheeled wagon swayed out of a side street and creaked up to them. Will called from the
seat: "I'm sorry I'm late, Scarlett."

Climbing  awkwardly down from the wagon, he stumped toward her and, bending, kissed her cheek. Will had never kissed her before, had never failed
to  precede  her  name  with  "Miss" and, while it surprised her, it warmed her heart and pleased her very much. He lifted her carefully over the
wheel  and  into  the wagon and, looking down, she saw that it was the same old rickety wagon in which she had fled from Atlanta. How had it ever
held  together  so  long?  Will must have kept it patched up very well. It made her slightly sick to look at it and to remember that night. If it
took the shoes off her feet or food from Aunt Pitty's table, she'd see that there was a new wagon at Tara and this one burned.

Will  did not speak at first and Scarlett was grateful. He threw his battered straw hat into the back of the wagon, clucked to the horse and they
moved off. Will was just the same, lank and gangling, pink of hair, mild of eye, patient as a draft animal.

They left the village behind and turned into the red road to Tara. A faint pink still lingered about the edges of the sky and fat feathery clouds
were tinged with gold and palest green. The stillness of the country twilight came down about them as calming as a prayer. How had she ever borne
it,  she  thought,  away for all these months, away from the fresh smell of country air, the plowed earth and the sweetness of summer nights? The
moist red earth smelled so good, so familiar, so friendly, she wanted to get out and scoop up a handful. The honeysuckle which draped the gullied
red  sides  of  the road in tangled greenery was piercingly fragrant as always after rain, the sweetest perfume in the world. Above their heads a
flock  of  chimney  swallows  whirled suddenly on swift wings and now and then a rabbit scurried startled across the road, his white tail bobbing
like  an  eiderdown  powder  puff.  She saw with pleasure that the cotton stood well, as they passed between plowed fields where the green bushes
reared  themselves sturdily out of the red earth. How beautiful all this was! The soft gray mist in the swampy bottoms, the red earth and growing
cotton,  the  sloping  fields  with  curving green rows and the black pines rising behind everything like sable walls. How had she ever stayed in
Atlanta so long?

"Scarlett,  before  I tell you about Mr. O'Hara--and I want to tell you everything before you get home--I want to ask your opinion on a matter. I
figger you're the head of the house now."

"What is it, Will?"

He turned his mild sober gaze on her for a moment.

"I just wanted your approval to my marryin' Suellen."

Scarlett clutched the seat, so surprised that she almost fell backwards. Marry Suellen! She'd never thought of anybody marrying Suellen since she
had taken Frank Kennedy from her. Who would have Suellen?

"Goodness, Will!"

"Then I take it you don't mind?"

"Mind? No, but-- Why, Will, you've taken my breath away! You marry Suellen? Will, I always thought you were sweet on Carreen."

Will kept his eyes on the horse and flapped the reins. His profile did not change but she thought he sighed slightly.

"Maybe I was," he said.

"Well, won't she have you?"

"I never asked her."

"Oh, Will, you're a fool. Ask her. She's worth two of Suellen!"

"Scarlett, you don't know a lot of things that's been going on at Tara. You ain't favored us with much of your attention these last months."

"I  haven't,  haven't  I?"  she  flared.  "What  do you suppose I've been doing in Atlanta? Riding around in a coach and four and going to balls?
Haven't I sent you money every month? Haven't I paid the taxes and fixed the roof and bought the new plow and the mules? Haven't--"

"Now,  don't fly off the handle and get your Irish up," he interrupted imperturbably. "If anybody knows what you've done, I do, and it's been two
men's work."

Slightly mollified, she questioned, "Well then, what do you mean?"

"Well,  you've kept the roof over us and food in the pantry and I ain't denyin' that, but you ain't given much thought to what's been goin' on in
anybody's  head  here  at  Tara. I ain't blamin' you, Scarlett. That's just your way. You warn't never very much interested in what was in folks'
heads.  But  what  I'm  tryin' to tell you is that I didn't never ask Miss Carreen because I knew it wouldn't be no use. She's been like a little
sister  to  me  and  I guess she talks to me plainer than to anybody in the world. But she never got over that dead boy and she never will. And I
might as well tell you now she's aimin' to go in a convent over to Charleston."

"Are you joking?"

"Well,  I  knew  it would take you back and I just want to ask you, Scarlett, don't you argue with her about it or scold her or laugh at her. Let
her go. It's all she wants now. Her heart's broken."

"But God's nightgown! Lots of people's hearts have been broken and they didn't run off to convents. Look at me. I lost a husband."

"But  your heart warn't broken," Will said calmly and, picking up a straw from the bottom of the wagon, he put it in his mouth and chewed slowly.
That  remark  took  the wind out of her. As always when she heard the truth spoken, no matter how unpalatable it was, basic honesty forced her to
acknowledge it as truth. She was silent a moment, trying to accustom herself to the idea of Carreen as a nun.

"Promise you won't fuss at her."

"Oh,  well,  I  promise," and then she looked at him with a new understanding and some amazement. Will had loved Carreen, loved her now enough to
take her part and make her retreat easy. And yet he wanted to marry Suellen.

"Well, what's all this about Suellen? You don't care for her, do you?"

"Oh,  yes,  I  do  in  a  way," he said removing the straw and surveying it as if it were highly interesting. "Suellen ain't as bad as you think,
Scarlett.  I  think  we'll get along right well. The only trouble with Suellen is that she needs a husband and some children and that's just what
every woman needs."

The  wagon jolted over the rutty road and for a few minutes while the two sat silent Scarlett's mind was busy. There must be something more to it
than  appeared  on  the  surface, something deeper, more important, to make the mild and soft-spoken Will want to marry a complaining nagger like
Suellen.

"You haven't told me the real reason, Will. If I'm head of the family, I've got a right to know."

"That's  right,"  said  Will, "and I guess you'll understand. I can't leave Tara. It's home to me, Scarlett, the only real home I ever knew and I
love every stone of it. I've worked on it like it was mine. And when you put out work on somethin', you come to love it. You know what I mean?"

She knew what he meant and her heart went out in a surge of warm affection for him, hearing him say he, too, loved the thing she loved best.

"And  I  figger it this way. With your pa gone and Carreen a nun, there'll be just me and Suellen left here and, of course, I couldn't live on at
Tara without marryin' Suellen. You know how folks talk."

"But--but Will, there's Melanie and Ashley--"

At  Ashley's  name  he  turned  and  looked  at her, his pale eyes unfathomable. She had the old feeling that Will knew all about her and Ashley,
understood all and did not either censure or approve.

"They'll be goin' soon."

"Going? Where? Tara is their home as well as yours."

"No, it ain't their home. That's just what's eatin' on Ashley. It ain't his home and he don't feel like he's earnin' his keep. He's a mighty pore
farmer  and  he  knows  it. God knows he tries his best but he warn't cut out for farmin' and you know it as well as I do. If he splits kindlin',
like as not he'll slice off his foot. He can't no more keep a plow straight in a furrow than little Beau can, and what he don't know about makin'
things  grow  would  fill  a book. It ain't his fault. He just warn't bred for it. And it worries him that he's a man livin' at Tara on a woman's
charity and not givin' much in return."

"Charity? Has he ever said--"

"No, he's never said a word. You know Ashley. But I can tell. Last night when we were sittin' up with your pa, I tole him I had asked Suellen and
she'd  said  Yes.  And then Ashley said that relieved him because he'd been feelin' like a dog, stayin' on at Tara, and he knew he and Miss Melly
would  have  to  keep  stayin'  on, now that Mr. O'Hara was dead, just to keep folks from talkin' about me and Suellen. So then he told me he was
aimin' to leave Tara and get work."

"Work? What kind? Where?"

"I don't know exactly what he'll do but he said he was goin' up North. He's got a Yankee friend in New York who wrote him about workin' in a bank
up there."

"Oh, no!" cried Scarlett from the bottom of her heart and, at the cry, Will gave her the same look as before.

"Maybe 'twould be better all 'round if he did go North."

"No! No! I don't think so."

Her  mind  was  working  feverishly. Ashley couldn't go North! She might never see him again. Even though she had not seen him in months, had not
spoken to him alone since that fateful scene in the orchard, there had not been a day when she had not thought of him, been glad he was sheltered
under  her  roof. She had never sent a dollar to Will that she had not been pleased that it would make Ashley's life easier. Of course, he wasn't
any  good  as  a farmer. Ashley was bred for better things, she thought proudly. He was born to rule, to live in a large house, ride fine horses,
read  books  of  poetry and tell negroes what to do. That there were no more mansions and horses and negroes and few books did not alter matters.
Ashley wasn't bred to plow and split rails. No wonder he wanted to leave Tara.

But  she  could not let him go away from Georgia. If necessary, she would bully Frank into giving him a job in the store, make Frank turn off the
boy  he  now  had  behind the counter. But, no--Ashley's place was no more behind a counter than it was behind a plow. A Wilkes a shopkeeper! Oh,
never  that!  There  must  be  something--why, her mill of course! Her relief at the thought was so great that she smiled. But would he accept an
offer  from  her?  Would  he  still  think it was charity? She must manage it so he would think he was doing her a favor. She would discharge Mr.
Johnson  and  put  Ashley  in  charge of the old mill while Hugh operated the new one. She would explain to Ashley how Frank's ill health and the
pressure of work at the store kept him from helping her, and she would plead her condition as another reason why she needed his help.

She  would  make him realize somehow that she couldn't do without his aid at this time. And she would give him a half-interest in the mill, if he
would  only  take  it  over--anything  just to have him near her, anything to see that bright smile light up his face, anything for the chance of
catching  an  unguarded look in his eyes that showed he still cared. But, she promised herself, never, never would she again try to prod him into
words  of love, never again would she try to make him throw away that foolish honor he valued more than love. Somehow, she must delicately convey
to him this new resolution of hers. Otherwise he might refuse, fearing another scene such as that last terrible one had been.

"I can get him something to do in Atlanta," she said.

"Well,  that's  yours  and  Ashley's business," said Will and put the straw back in his mouth. "Giddap, Sherman. Now, Scarlett. there's somethin'
else  I've got to ask you before I tell you about your pa. I won't have you lightin' into Suellen. What she's done, she's done, and you snatchin'
her baldheaded won't bring Mr. O'Hara back. Besides she honestly thought she was actin' for the best!"

"I wanted to ask you about that. What is all this about Suellen? Alex talked riddles and said she ought to be whipped. What has she done?"

"Yes, folks are pretty riled up about her. Everybody I run into this afternoon in Jonesboro was promisin' to cut her dead the next time they seen
her, but maybe they'll get over it. Now, promise me you won't light into her. I won't be havin' no quarrelin' tonight with Mr. O'Hara layin' dead
in the parlor."

HE won't be having any quarreling! thought Scarlett, indignantly. He talks like Tara was his already!

And then she thought of Gerald, dead in the parlor, and suddenly she began to cry, cry in bitter, gulping sobs. Will put his arm around her, drew
her comfortably close and said nothing.

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 gasses 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.

Read Part Four of Gone with the Wind.