[Part 15] "Gone With The Wind" by Margaret Mitchell

*************************************

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 upon 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 nuthin’ 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 ever 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 suggestions.”

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 debonair 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 Götterdämmerung.”

“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, called 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 he 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 for 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 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 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 turnout 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, bogtrotting 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 only be 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 try 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 hyar nor 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’s 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 Elsigns 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, chile!

Fly up de stairs an’ fotch Miss Scarlett’s pattun box frum de attic an’ try an’ fine de scissors widout 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 re-cover 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 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 absentmindedness.

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 crêpe 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 Ole 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 bandana 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 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 broomsedge.

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 Elsigns 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.

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 Elsigns 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 René 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 René 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 Elsigns 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 Elsigns 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 Carlton 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 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 the man has really got.

Everybody, including the Yankees, believe 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 in 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.