-five
IT WAS RAINING WHEN SHE CAME OUT of the building and the sky was a dull
putty color. The soldiers on the square had taken shelter in their huts and
the streets were deserted. There was no vehicle in sight and she knew she
would have to walk the long way home.
The brandy glow faded as she trudged along. The cold wind made her
shiver and the chilly needle-like drops drove hard into her face. The rain
quickly penetrated Aunt Pitty’s thin cloak until it hung in clammy folds
about her. She knew the velvet dress was being ruined and as for the tail
feathers on the bonnet, they were as drooping and draggled as when their
former owner had worn them about the wet barn yard of Tara. The bricks
of the sidewalk were broken and, for long stretches, completely gone. In
these spots the mud was ankle deep and her slippers stuck in it as if it were
glue, even coming completely off her feet. Every time she bent over to
retrieve them, the hem of the dress fell in the mud. She did not even try to
avoid puddles but stepped dully into them, dragging her heavy skirts after
her. She could feel her wet petticoat and pantalets cold about her ankles,
but she was beyond caring about the wreck of the costume on which she
had gambled so much. She was chilled and disheartened and desperate.
How could she ever go back to Tara and face them after her brave
words? How could she tell them they must all go—somewhere? How could
she leave it all, the red fields, the tall pines, the dark swampy bottom lands,
the quiet burying ground where Ellen lay in the cedars’ deep shade?
Hatred of Rhett burned in her heart as she plodded along the slippery
way. What a blackguard he was! She hoped they did hang him, so she
would never have to face him again, with his knowledge of her disgrace
and her humiliation. Of course, he could have gotten the money for her if
he’d wanted to get it. Oh, hanging was too good for him! Thank God, he
couldn’t see her now, with her clothes soaking wet and her hair straggling
and her teeth chattering. How hideous she must look and how he would
laugh!
The negroes she passed turned insolent grins at her and laughed among
themselves as she hurried by, slipping and sliding in the mud, stopping,
panting to replace her slippers. How dared they laugh, the black apes! How
dared they grin at her, Scarlett O’Hara of Tara! She’d like to have them all
whipped until the blood ran down their backs. What devils the Yankees
were to set them free, free to jeer at white people!
As she walked down Washington Street, the landscape was as dreary as
her own heart. Here was none of the bustle and cheerfulness which she had
noted on Peachtree Street. Here many handsome homes had once stood,
but few of them had been rebuilt. Smoked foundations and the lonesome
blackened chimneys, now known as “Sherman’s Sentinels,” appeared with
disheartening frequency. Overgrown paths led to what had been houses—
old lawns thick with dead weeds, carriage blocks bearing names she knew
so well, hitching posts which would never again know the knot of reins.
Cold wind and rain, mud and bare trees, silence and desolation. How wet
her feet were and how long the journey home!
She heard the splash of hooves behind her and moved farther over on
the narrow sidewalk to avoid more mud splotches on Aunt Pittypat’s cloak.
A horse and buggy came slowly up the road and she turned to watch it,
determined to beg a ride if the driver was a white person. The rain obscured
her vision as the buggy came abreast, but she saw the driver peer over the
tarpaulin that stretched from the dashboard to his chin. There was
something familiar about his face and as she stepped out into the road to
get a closer view, there was an embarrassed little cough from the man and a
well-known voice cried in accents of pleasure and astonishment: “Surely, it
can’t be Miss Scarlett!”
“Oh, Mr. Kennedy!” she cried, splashing across the road, and leaning on
the muddy wheel, heedless of further damage to the cloak. “I was never so
glad to see anybody in my life!”
He colored with pleasure at the obvious sincerity of her words, hastily
squirted a stream of tobacco juice from the opposite side of the buggy and
leaped spryly to the ground. He shook her hand enthusiastically and
holding up the tarpaulin, assisted her into the buggy.
“Miss Scarlett, what are you doing over in this section by yourself? Don’t
you know it’s dangerous these days? And you are soaking wet. Here, wrap
the robe around your feet.”
As he fussed over her, clucking like a hen, she gave herself up to the
luxury of being taken care of. It was nice to have a man fussing and
clucking and scolding, even if it was only that old maid in pants, Frank
Kennedy. It was especially soothing after Rhett’s brutal treatment. And oh,
how good to see a County face when she was so far from home! He was
well dressed, she noticed, and the buggy was new too. The horse looked
young and well fed, but Frank looked far older than his years, older than on
that Christmas eve when he had been at Tara with his men. He was thin
and sallow faced and his yellow eyes were watery and sunken in creases of
loose flesh. His ginger-colored beard was scantier than ever, streaked with
tobacco juice and as ragged as if he clawed at it incessantly. But he looked
bright and cheerful, in contrast with the lines of sorrow and worry and
weariness which Scarlett saw in faces everywhere.
“It’s a pleasure to see you,” said Frank warmly. “I didn’t know you were
in town. I saw Miss Pittypat only last week and she didn’t tell me you were
coming. Did—er—ahem—did anyone else come up from Tara with you?”
He was thinking of Suellen, the silly old fool.
“No,” she said, wrapping the warm lap robe about her and trying to pull
it up around her neck. “I came alone. I didn’t give Aunt Pitty any
warning.”
He chirruped to the horse and it plodded off, picking its way carefully
down the slick road.
“All the folks at Tara well?”
“Oh, yes, so-so.”
She must think of something to talk about, yet it was so hard to talk.
Her mind was leaden with defeat and all she wanted was to lie back in this
warm blanket and say to herself: “I won’t think of Tara now. I’ll think of it
later, when it won’t hurt so much.” If she could just get him started talking
on some subject which would hold him all the way home, so she would
have nothing to do but murmur “How nice” and “You certainly are smart”
at intervals.
“Mr. Kennedy, I’m so surprised to see you. I know I’ve been a bad girl,
not keeping up with old friends, but I didn’t know you were here in
Atlanta. I thought somebody told me you were in Marietta.”
“I do business in Marietta, a lot of business,” he said. “Didn’t Miss
Suellen tell you I had settled in Atlanta? Didn’t she tell you about my
store?”
Vaguely she had a memory of Suellen chattering about Frank and a store
but she never paid much heed to anything Suellen said. It had been
sufficient to know that Frank was alive and would some day take Suellen
off her hands.
“No, not a word,” she lied. “Have you a store? How smart you must be!”
He looked a little hurt at hearing that Suellen had not published the
news but brightened at the flattery.
“Yes, I’ve got a store, and a pretty good one I think. Folks tell me I’m a
born merchant.” He laughed pleasedly, the tittery cackling laugh which she
always found so annoying.
“Conceited old fool,” she thought.
“Oh, you could be a success at anything you turned your hand to, Mr.
Kennedy. But how on earth did you ever get started with the store? When I
saw you Christmas before last you said you didn’t have a cent in the world.”
He cleared his throat raspingly, clawed at his whiskers and smiled his
nervous timid smile.
“Well, it’s a long story, Miss Scarlett.”
“Thank the Lord!” she thought. “Perhaps it will hold him till we get
home.” And aloud: “Do tell!”
“You recall when we came to Tara last, hunting for supplies? Well, not
long after that I went into active service. I mean real fighting. No more
commissary for me. There wasn’t much need for a commissary, Miss
Scarlett, because we couldn’t hardly pick up a thing for the army, and I
thought the place for an able-bodied man was in the fighting line. Well, I
fought along with the cavalry for a spell till I got a minie ball through the
shoulder.”
He looked very proud and Scarlett said: “How dreadful!”
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad, just a flesh wound,” he said deprecatingly. “I was
sent down south to a hospital and when I was just about well, the Yankee
raiders came through. My, my, but that was a hot time! We didn’t have
much warning and all of us who could walk helped haul out the army stores
and the hospital equipment to the train tracks to move it. We’d gotten one
train about loaded when the Yankees rode in one end of town and out we
went the other end as fast as we could go. My, my, that was a mighty sad
sight, sitting on top of that train and seeing the Yankees burn those
supplies we had to leave at the depot. Miss Scarlett, they burned about a
half-mile of stuff we had piled up there along the tracks. We just did get
away ourselves.”
“How dreadful!”
“Yes, that’s the word. Dreadful. Our men had come back into Atlanta
then and so our train was sent here. Well, Miss Scarlett, it wasn’t long
before the war was over and—well, there was a lot of china and cots and
mattresses and blankets and nobody claiming them. I suppose rightfully
they belonged to the Yankees. I think those were the terms of the
surrender, weren’t they?”
“Um,” said Scarlett absently. She was getting warmer now and a little
drowsy.
“I don’t know till now if I did right,” he said, a little querulously. “But
the way I figured it, all that stuff wouldn’t do the Yankees a bit of good.
They’d probably burn it. And our folks had paid good solid money for it,
and I thought it still ought to belong to the Confederacy or to the
Confederates. Do you see what I mean?”
“Um.”
“I’m glad you agree with me, Miss Scarlett. In a way, it’s been on my
conscience. Lots of folks have told me: ‘Oh, forget about it, Frank,’ but I
can’t. I couldn’t hold up my head if I thought I’d done what wasn’t right.
Do you think I did right?”
“Of course,” she said, wondering what the old fool had been talking
about. Some struggle with his conscience. When a man got as old as Frank
Kennedy he ought to have learned not to bother about things that didn’t
matter. But he always was so nervous and fussy and old maidish.
“I’m glad to hear you say it. After the surrender I had about ten dollars
in silver and nothing else in the world. You know what they did to
Jonesboro and my house and store there. I just didn’t know what to do. But
I used the ten dollars to put a roof on an old store down by Five Points and
I moved the hospital equipment in and started selling it. Everybody needed
beds and china and mattresses and I sold them cheap, because I figured it
was about as much other folks’ stuff as it was mine. But I cleared money on
it and bought some more stuff and the store just went along fine. I think I’ll
make a lot of money on it if things pick up.”
At the word “money,” her mind came back to him, crystal clear.
“You say you’ve made money?”
He visibly expanded under her interest. Few women except Scarlett had
ever given him more than perfunctory courtesy and it was very flattering to
have a former belle like Scarlett hanging on his words. He slowed the horse
so they would not reach home before he had finished his story.
“I’m not a millionaire, Miss Scarlett, and considering the money I used
to have, what I’ve got now sounds small. But I made a thousand dollars this
year. Of course, five hundred of it went to paying for new stock and
repairing the store and paying the rent. But I’ve made five hundred clear
and as things are certainly picking up, I ought to clear two thousand next
year. I can sure use it, too, for you see, I’ve got another iron in the fire.”
Interest had sprung up sharply in her at the talk of money. She veiled
her eyes with thick bristly lashes and moved a little closer to him.
“What does that mean, Mr. Kennedy?”
He laughed and slapped the reins against the horse’s back.
“I guess I’m boring you, talking about business, Miss Scarlett. A pretty
little woman like you doesn’t need to know anything about business.”
The old fool.
“Oh, I know I’m a goose about business but I’m so interested! Please tell
me all about it and you can explain what I don’t understand.”
“Well, my other iron is a sawmill.”
“A what?”
“A mill to cut up lumber and plane it. I haven’t bought it yet but I’m
going to. There’s a man named Johnson who has one, way out Peachtree
road, and he’s anxious to sell it. He needs some cash right away, so he wants
to sell and stay and run it for me at a weekly wage. It’s one of the few mills
in this section, Miss Scarlett. The Yankees destroyed most of them. And
anyone who owns a sawmill owns a gold mine, for nowadays you can ask
your own price for lumber. The Yankees burned so many houses here and
there aren’t enough for people to live in and it looks like folks have gone
crazy about rebuilding. They can’t get enough lumber and they can’t get it
fast enough. People are just pouring into Atlanta now, all the folks from
the country districts who can’t make a go of farming without darkies and
the Yankees and Carpetbaggers who are swarming in trying to pick our
bones a little barer than they already are. I tell you Atlanta’s going to be a
big town soon. They’ve got to have lumber for their houses, so I’m going to
buy this mill just as soon as—well, as soon as some of the bills owing me are
paid. By this time next year, I ought to be breathing easier about money. I
—I guess you know why I’m so anxious to make money quickly, don’t you?”
He blushed and cackled again. He’s thinking of Suellen, Scarlett
thought in disgust.
For a moment she considered asking him to lend her three hundred
dollars, but wearily she rejected the idea. He would be embarrassed; he
would stammer; he would offer excuses, but he wouldn’t lend it to her. He
had worked hard for it, so he could marry Suellen in the spring and if he
parted with it, his wedding would be postponed indefinitely. Even if she
worked on his sympathies and his duty toward his future family and gained
his promise of a loan, she knew Suellen would never permit it. Suellen was
getting more and more worried over the fact that she was practically an old
maid and she would move heaven and earth to prevent anything from
delaying her marriage.
What was there in that whining complaining girl to make this old fool
so anxious to give her a soft nest? Suellen didn’t deserve a loving husband
and the profits of a store and a sawmill. The moment Sue got her hands on
a little money she’d give herself unendurable airs and never contribute one
cent toward the upkeep of Tara. Not Suellen! She’d think herself well out
of it and not care if Tara went for taxes or burned to the ground, so long as
she had pretty clothes and a “Mrs.” in front of her name.
As Scarlett thought of Suellen’s secure future and the precarious one of
herself and Tara, anger flamed in her at the unfairness of life. Hastily she
looked out of the buggy into the muddy street, lest Frank should see her
expression. She was going to lose everything she had, while Sue—
Suddenly a determination was born in her.
Suellen should not have Frank and his store and his mill!
Suellen didn’t deserve them. She was going to have them herself. She
thought of Tara and remembered Jonas Wilkerson, venomous as a rattler, at
the foot of the front steps, and she grasped at the last straw floating above
the shipwreck of her life. Rhett had failed her but the Lord had provided
Frank.
But can I get him? Her fingers clenched as she looked unseeingly into
the rain. Can I make him forget Sue and propose to me real quick? If I
could make Rhett almost propose, I know I could get Frank! Her eyes went
over him, her lids flickering. Certainly, he’s no beauty, she thought coolly,
and he’s got very bad teeth and his breath smells bad and he’s old enough
to be my father. Moreover, he’s nervous and timid and well meaning, and I
don’t know of any more damning qualities a man can have. But at least,
he’s a gentleman and I believe I could stand living with him better than
with Rhett. Certainly I could manage him easier. At any rate, beggars can’t
be choosers.
That he was Suellen’s fiancé caused her no qualm of conscience. After
the complete moral collapse which had sent her to Atlanta and to Rhett,
the appropriation of her sister’s betrothed seemed a minor affair and one
not to be bothered with at this time.
With the rousing of fresh hope, her spine stiffened and she forgot that
her feet were wet and cold. She looked at Frank so steadily, her eyes
narrowing, that he became somewhat alarmed and she dropped her gaze
swiftly, remembering Rhett’s words: “I’ve seen eyes like yours above a
dueling pistol…. They evoke no ardor in the male breast.”
“What’s the matter, Miss Scarlett? You got a chill?”
“Yes,” she answered helplessly. “Would you mind—” She hesitated
timidly. “Would you mind if I put my hand in your coat pocket? It’s so cold
and my muff is soaked through.”
“Why—why—of course not! And you haven’t any gloves! My, my, what
a brute I’ve been idling along like this, talking my head off when you must
be freezing and wanting to get to a fire. Giddap, Sally! By the way, Miss
Scarlett, I’ve been so busy talking about myself I haven’t even asked you
what you were doing in this section in this weather?”
“I was at the Yankee headquarters,” she answered before she thought.
His sandy brows went up in astonishment.
“But Miss Scarlett! The soldiers— Why—”
“Mary, Mother of God, let me think of a real good lie,” she prayed
hastily. It would never do for Frank to suspect she had seen Rhett. Frank
thought Rhett the blackest of blackguards and unsafe for decent women to
speak to.
“I went there—I went there to see if—if any of the officers would buy
fancy work from me to send home to their wives. I embroider very nicely.”
He sank back against the seat aghast, indignation struggling with
bewilderment.
“You went to the Yankees— But Miss Scarlett! You shouldn’t. Why—
why…. Surely your father doesn’t know! Surely, Miss Pittypat—”
“Oh, I shall die if you tell Aunt Pittypat!” she cried in real anxiety and
burst into tears. It was easy to cry, because she was so cold and miserable,
but the effect was startling. Frank could not have been more embarrassed or
helpless if she had suddenly begun disrobing. He clicked his tongue against
his teeth several times, muttering “My! My!” and made futile gestures at
her. A daring thought went through his mind that he should draw her head
onto his shoulder and pat her but he had never done this to any woman
and hardly knew how to go about it. Scarlett O’Hara, so high spirited and
pretty, crying here in his buggy. Scarlett O’Hara, the proudest of the proud,
trying to sell needlework to the Yankees. His heart burned.
She sobbed on, saying a few words now and then, and he gathered that
all was not well at Tara. Mr. O’Hara was still “not himself at all,” and there
wasn’t enough food to go around for so many. So she had to come to
Atlanta to try to make a little money for herself and her boy. Frank clicked
his tongue again and suddenly found that her head was on his shoulder. He
did not quite know how it got there. Surely he had not placed it there, but
there her head was and there was Scarlett helplessly sobbing against his
thin chest, an exciting and novel sensation for him. He patted her shoulder
timidly, gingerly at first, and when she did not rebuff him he became bolder
and patted her firmly. What a helpless, sweet, womanly thing she was. And
how brave and silly to try her hand at making money by her needle. But
dealing with the Yankees—that was too much.
“I won’t tell Miss Pittypat, but you must promise me, Miss Scarlett, that
you won’t do anything like this again. The idea of your father’s daughter—”
Her wet green eyes sought his helplessly.
“But, Mr. Kennedy, I must do something. I must take care of my poor
little boy and there is no one to look after us now.”
“You are a brave little woman,” he pronounced, “but I won’t have you
do this sort of thing. Your family would die of shame.”
“Then what will I do?” The swimming eyes looked up to him as if she
knew he knew everything and was hanging on his words.
“Well, I don’t know right now. But I’ll think of something.”
“Oh, I know you will! You are so smart—Frank.”
She had never called him by his first name before and the sound came to
him as a pleasant shock and surprise. The poor girl was probably so upset
she didn’t even notice her slip. He felt very kindly toward her and very
protecting. If there was anything he could do for Suellen O’Hara’s sister, he
would certainly do it. He pulled out a red bandana handkerchief and
handed it to her and she wiped her eyes and began to smile tremulously.
“I’m such a silly little goose,” she said apologetically. “Please forgive
me.”
“You aren’t a silly little goose. You’re a brave little woman and you are
trying to carry too heavy a load. I’m afraid Miss Pittypat isn’t going to be
much help to you. I hear she lost most of her property and Mr. Henry
Hamilton’s in bad shape himself. I only wish I had a home to offer you
shelter in. But, Miss Scarlett, you just remember this, when Miss Suellen
and I are married, there’ll always be a place for you under our roof and for
Wade Hampton too.”
Now was the time! Surely the saints and angels watched over her to give
her such a Heaven-sent opportunity. She managed to look very startled and
embarrassed and opened her mouth as if to speak quickly and then shut it
with a pop.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know I was to be your brother-in-law this
spring,” he said with nervous jocularity. And then, seeing her eyes fill up
with tears, he questioned in alarm: “What’s the matter? Miss Sue’s not ill, is
she?”
“Oh, no! No!”
“There is something wrong. You must tell me.”
“Oh, I can’t! I didn’t know! I thought surely she must have written you
— Oh, how mean!”
“Miss Scarlett, what is it?”
“Oh, Frank, I didn’t mean to let it out but I thought, of course, you
knew—that she had written you—”
“Written me what?” He was trembling.
“Oh, to do this to a fine man like you!”
“What’s she done?”
“She didn’t write you? Oh, I guess she was too ashamed to write you.
She should be ashamed! Oh, to have such a mean sister!”
By this time, Frank could not even get questions to his lips. He sat
staring at her, gray faced, the reins slack in his hands.
“She’s going to marry Tony Fontaine next month. Oh, I’m so sorry,
Frank. So sorry to be the one to tell you. She just got tired of waiting and
she was afraid she’d be an old maid.”
* * *
Mammy was standing on the front porch when Frank helped Scarlett out of
the buggy. She had evidently been standing there for some time, for her
head rag was damp and the old shawl clutched tightly about her showed
rain spots. Her wrinkled black face was a study in anger and apprehension
and her lip was pushed out farther than Scarlett could ever remember. She
peered quickly at Frank and, when she saw who it was, her face changed—
pleasure, bewilderment and something akin to guilt spreading over it. She
waddled forward to Frank with pleased greetings and grinned and curtsied
when he shook her hand.
“It sho is good ter see home folks,” she said. “How is you, Mist’ Frank?
My, ain’ you lookin’ fine an’ gran’! Effen Ah’d knowed Miss Scarlett wuz
out wid you, Ah wouldn’ worrit so. Ah’d knowed she wuz tekken keer of.
Ah come back hyah an’ fine she gone an’ Ah been as ’stracted as a chicken
wid its haid off, thinkin’ she runnin’ roun’ dis town by herseff wid all dese
trashy free issue niggers on de street. Huccome you din’ tell me you gwine
out, honey? An’ you wid a cole!”
Scarlett winked slyly at Frank and, for all his distress at the bad news he
had just heard, he smiled, knowing she was enjoining silence and making
him one in a pleasant conspiracy.
“You run up and fix me some dry clothes, Mammy,” she said. “And some
hot tea.”
“Lawd, yo’ new dress is plum ruint,” grumbled Mammy. “Ah gwine have
a time dryin’ it an’ brushin’ it, so it’ll be fit ter be wo’ ter de weddin’
ternight.”
She went into the house and Scarlett leaned close to Frank and
whispered: “Do come to supper tonight. We are so lonesome. And we’re
going to the wedding afterward. Do be our escort! And, please don’t say
anything to Aunt Pitty about—about Suellen. It would distress her so
much and I can’t bear for her to know that my sister—”
“Oh, I won’t! I won’t!” Frank said hastily, wincing from the very
thought.
“You’ve been so sweet to me today and done me so much good. I feel
right brave again.” She squeezed his hand in parting and turned the full
battery of her eyes upon him.
Mammy, who was waiting just inside the door, gave her an inscrutable
look and followed her, puffing, up the stairs to the bedroom. She was silent
while she stripped off the wet clothes and hung them over chairs and
tucked Scarlett into bed. When she had brought up a cup of hot tea and a
hot brick, rolled in flannel, she looked down at Scarlett and said, with the
nearest approach to an apology in her voice Scarlett had ever heard:
“Lamb, huccome you din’ tell yo’ own Mammy whut you wuz upter? Den
Ah wouldn’ had ter traipse all dis way up hyah ter ’Lanta. Ah is too ole an’
too fat fer sech runnin’ roun’.”
“What do you mean?”
“Honey, you kain fool me. Ah knows you. An’ Ah seed Mist’ Frank’s
face jes’ now an’ Ah seed yo’ face, an’ Ah kin read yo’ mine lak a pahson
read a Bible. An’ Ah heerd dat whisperin’ you wuz givin’ him ’bout Miss
Suellen. Effen Ah’d had a notion ’twuz Mist’ Frank you wuz affer, Ah’d
stayed home whar Ah b’longs.”
“Well,” said Scarlett shortly, snuggling under the blankets and realizing
it was useless to try to throw Mammy off the scent, “who did you think it
was?”
“Chile, Ah din’ know but Ah din’ lak de look on yo’ face yestiddy. An’
Ah ’membered Miss Pittypat writin’ Miss Melly dat dat rapscallion Butler
man had lots of money an’ Ah doan fergit whut Ah hears. But Mist’ Frank,
he a gempmum even ef he ain’ so pretty.”
Scarlett gave her a sharp look and Mammy returned the gaze with calm
omniscience.
“Well, what are you going to do about it? Tattle to Suellen?”
“Ah is gwine ter he’p you pleasure Mist’ Frank eve’y way Ah knows
how,” said Mammy, tucking the covers about Scarlett’s neck.
Scarlett lay quietly for a while, as Mammy fussed about the room, relief
flooding her that there was no need for words between them. No
explanations were asked, no reproaches made. Mammy understood and was
silent. In Mammy, Scarlett had found a realist more uncompromising than
herself. The mottled wise old eyes saw deeply, saw clearly, with the
directness of the savage and the child, undeterred by conscience when
danger threatened her pet. Scarlett was her baby and what her baby
wanted, even though it belonged to another, Mammy was willing to help
her obtain. The rights of Suellen and Frank Kennedy did not even enter
her mind, save to cause a grim inward chuckle. Scarlett was in trouble and
doing the best she could, and Scarlett was Miss Ellen’s child. Mammy
rallied to her with never a moment’s hesitation.
Scarlett felt the silent reinforcement and, as the hot brick at her feet
warmed her, the hope which had flickered faintly on the cold ride home
grew into a flame. It swept through her, making her heart pump the blood
through her veins in pounding surges. Strength was coming back and a
reckless excitement which made her want to laugh aloud. Not beaten yet,
she thought exultantly.
“Hand me the mirror, Mammy,” she said.
“Keep yo’ shoulders unner dat kivver,” ordered Mammy, passing the
hand mirror to her, a smile on her thick lips.
Scarlett looked at herself.
“I look white as a hant,” she said, “and my hair is as wild as a horse’s
tail.”
“You doan look peart as you mout.”
“Hum…. Is it raining very hard?”
“You know it’s po’in’.”
“Well, just the same, you’ve got to go downtown for me.”
“Not in dis rain, Ah ain’.”
“Yes, you are or I’ll go myself.”
“Whut you got ter do dat woan wait? Look ter me lak you done nuff fer
one day.”
“I want,” said Scarlett, surveying herself carefully in the mirror, “a bottle
of cologne water. You can wash my hair and rinse it with cologne. And buy
me a jar of quince-seed jelly to make it lie down flat.”
“Ah ain’ gwine wash yo’ ha’r in dis wedder an’ you ain’ gwine put no
cologne on yo’ haid lak a fas’ woman needer. Not w’ile Ah got breaf in mah
body.”
“Oh, yes, I am. Look in my purse and get that five-dollar gold piece out
and go to town. And—er, Mammy, while you are downtown, you might get
me a—a pot of rouge.”
“Whut dat?” asked Mammy suspiciously.
Scarlett met her eyes with a coldness she was far from feeling. There was
never any way of knowing just how far Mammy could be bullied.
“Never you mind. Just ask for it.”
“Ah ain’ buyin’ nuthin’ dat Ah doan know whut ’tis.”
“Well, it’s paint, if you’re so curious! Face paint. Don’t stand there and
swell up like a toad. Go on.”
“Paint!” ejaculated Mammy. “Face paint! Well, you ain’ so big dat Ah
kain whup you! Ah ain’ never been so scan’lized! You is los’ yo’ mine! Miss
Ellen be tuhnin’ in her grabe dis minute! Paintin’ yo’ face lak a—”
“You know very well Grandma Robillard painted her face and—”
“Yas’m, an’ wo’ only one petticoat an’ it wrang out wid water ter mek it
stick an’ show de shape of her laigs, but dat ain’ sayin’ you is gwine do
sumpin’ lak dat! Times wuz scan’lous w’en Ole Miss wuz young but times
changes, dey do an’—”
“Name of God!” cried Scarlett, losing her temper and throwing back the
covers. “You can go straight back to Tara!”
“You kain sen’ me ter Tara ness Ah wants ter go. Ah is free,” said
Mammy heatedly. “An’ Ah is gwine ter stay right hyah. Git back in dat
baid. Does you want ter ketch pneumony jes’ now? Put down dem stays!
Put dem down, honey. Now, Miss Scarlett, you ain’ gwine nowhars in dis
wedder. Lawd God! But you sho look lak yo’ pa! Git back in baid— Ah
kain go buyin’ no paint! Ah die of shame, eve’ybody knowin’ it wuz fer
mah chile! Miss Scarlett, you is so sweet an’ pretty lookin’ you doan need
no paint. Honey, doan nobody but bad womens use dat stuff.”
“Well, they get results, don’t they?”
“Jesus, hear her! Lamb, doan say bad things lak dat! Put down dem wet
stockin’s, honey. Ah kain have you buy dat stuff yo’seff. Miss Ellen would
hant me. Git back in baid. Ah’ll go. Maybe Ah fine me a sto’ whar dey
doan know us.”
* * *
That night at Mrs. Elsing’s, when Fanny had been duly married and old
Levi and the other musicians were tuning up for the dance, Scarlett looked
about her with gladness. It was so exciting to be actually at a party again.
She was pleased also with the warm reception she had received. When she
entered the house on Frank’s arm, everyone had rushed to her with cries of
pleasure and welcome, kissed her, shaken her hand, told her they had
missed her dreadfully and that she must never go back to Tara. The men
seemed gallantly to have forgotten she had tried her best to break their
hearts in other days and the girls that she had done everything in her
power to entice their beaux away from them. Even Mrs. Merriwether, Mrs.
Whiting, Mrs. Meade and the other dowagers who had been so cool to her
during the last days of the war, forgot her flighty conduct and their
disapproval of it and recalled only that she had suffered in their common
defeat and that she was Pitty’s niece and Charles’ widow. They kissed her
and spoke gently with tears in their eyes of her dear mother’s passing and
asked at length about her father and her sisters. Everyone asked about
Melanie and Ashley, demanding the reason why they, too, had not come
back to Atlanta.
In spite of her pleasure at the welcome, Scarlett felt a slight uneasiness
which she tried to conceal, an uneasiness about the appearance of her
velvet dress. It was still damp to the knees and still spotted about the hem,
despite the frantic efforts of Mammy and Cookie with a steaming kettle, a
clean hair brush and frantic wavings in front of an open fire. Scarlett was
afraid someone would notice her bedraggled state and realize that this was
her only nice dress. She was a little cheered by the fact that many of the
dresses of the other guests looked far worse than hers. They were so old and
had such carefully mended and pressed looks. At least, her dress was whole
and new, damp though it was—in fact, the only new dress at the gathering
with the exception of Fanny’s white-satin wedding gown.
Remembering what Aunt Pitty had told her about the Elsing finances,
she wondered where the money for the satin dress had been obtained and
for the refreshments and decorations and musicians too. It must have cost a
pretty penny. Borrowed money probably or else the whole Elsing clan had
contributed to give Fanny this expensive wedding. Such a wedding in these
hard times seemed to Scarlett an extravagance on a par with the
tombstones of the Tarleton boys and she felt the same irritation and lack of
sympathy she had felt as she stood in the Tarleton burying ground. The
days when money could be thrown away carelessly had passed. Why did
these people persist in making the gestures of the old days when the old
days were gone?
But she shrugged off her momentary annoyance. It wasn’t her money
and she didn’t want her evening’s pleasure spoiled by irritation at other
people’s foolishness.
She discovered she knew the groom quite well, for he was Tommy
Wellburn from Sparta and she had nursed him in 1863 when he had a
wound in his shoulder. He had been a handsome young six-footer then and
had given up his medical studies to go in the cavalry. Now he looked like a
little old man, so bent was he by the wound in his hip. He walked with
some difficulty and, as Aunt Pitty had remarked, spraddled in a very vulgar
way. But he seemed totally unaware of his appearance, or unconcerned
about it, and had the manner of one who asks no odds from any man. He
had given up all hope of continuing his medical studies and was now a
contractor, working a labor crew of Irishmen who were building the new
hotel. Scarlett wondered how he managed so onerous a job in his condition
but asked no questions, realizing wryly that almost anything was possible
when necessity drove.
Tommy and Hugh Elsing and the little monkey-like René Picard stood
talking with her while the chairs and furniture were pushed back to the
walls in preparation for the dancing. Hugh had not changed since Scarlett
last saw him in 1862. He was still the thin sensitive boy with the same lock
of pale brown hair hanging over his forehead and the same delicate useless-
looking hands she remembered so well. But René had changed since that
furlough when he married Maybelle Merriwether. He still had the Gallic
twinkle in his black eyes and the Creole zest for living but, for all his easy
laughter, there was something hard about his face which had not been
there in the early days of the war. And the air of supercilious elegance
which had clung about him in his striking Zouave uniform was completely
gone.
“Cheeks lak ze rose, eyes lak ze emerald!” he said, kissing Scarlett’s hand
and paying tribute to the rouge upon her face. “Pretty lak w’en I first see
you at ze bazaar. You remembaire? Nevaire have I forgot how you toss your
wedding ring in my basket. Ha, but zat was brave! But I should nevaire
have zink you wait so long to get anothaire ring!”
His eyes sparkled wickedly and he dug his elbow into Hugh’s ribs.
“And I never thought you’d be driving a pie wagon, Renny Picard,” she
said. Instead of being ashamed at having his degrading occupation thrown
in his face, he seemed pleased and laughed uproariously, slapping Hugh on
the back.
“Touché!” he cried. “Belle Mère, Madame Merriwether, she mek me do
eet, ze first work I do een all my life, me, René Picard, who was to grow old
breeding ze race horse, playing ze feedle! Now, I drive ze pie wagon and I
lak eet! Madame Belle Mère, she can mek a man do annyzing. She should
have been ze general and we win ze war, eh, Tommy?”
Well! thought Scarlett. The idea of liking to drive a pie wagon when his
people used to own ten miles along the Mississippi River and a big house in
New Orleans, too!
“If we’d had our mothers-in-law in the ranks, we’d have beaten the
Yankees in a week,” agreed Tommy, his eyes straying to the slender,
indomitable form of his new mother-in-law. “The only reason we lasted as
long as we did was because of the ladies behind us who wouldn’t give up.”
“Who’ll never give up,” amended Hugh, and his smile was proud but a
little wry. “There’s not a lady here tonight who has surrendered, no matter
what her men folks did at Appomattox. It’s a lot worse on them than it
ever was on us. At least, we took it out in fighting.”
“And in hating,” finished Tommy. “Eh, Scarlett? It bothers the ladies to
see what their men folks have come to lots more than it bothers us. Hugh
was to be a judge, René was to play the fiddle before the crowned heads of
Europe—” He ducked as René aimed a blow at him. “And I was to be a
doctor and now—”
“Geeve us ze time!” cried René. “Zen I become ze Pie Prince of ze
South! And my good Hugh ze King of ze Kindling and you, my Tommy, you
weel own ze Irish slaves instead of ze darky slaves. What change—what
fun! And what eet do for you, Mees Scarlett, and Mees Melly? You meelk
ze cow, peek ze cotton?”
“Indeed, no!” said Scarlett coolly, unable to understand René’s gay
acceptance of hardships. “Our darkies do that.”
“Mees Melly, I hear she call her boy ‘Beauregard.’ You tell her I, René,
approve and say that except for ‘Jesus’ there is no bettaire name.”
And though he smiled, his eyes glowed proudly at the name of
Louisiana’s dashing hero.
“Well, there’s ‘Robert Edward Lee,’” observed Tommy. “And while I’m
not trying to lessen Old Beau’s reputation, my first son is going to be named
‘Bob Lee Wellburn.’”
René laughed and shrugged.
“I recount to you a joke but eet eez a true story. And you see how
Creoles zink of our brave Beauregard and of your General Lee. On ze train
near New Orleans a man of Virginia, a man of General Lee, he meet wiz a
Creole of ze troops of Beauregard. And ze man of Virginia, he talk, talk,
talk how General Lee do zis, General Lee say zat. And ze Creole, he look
polite and he wreenkle hees forehead lak he try to remembaire, and zen he
smile and say: ‘General Lee! Ah, oui! Now I know! General Lee! Ze man
General Beauregard speak well of!’”
Scarlett tried to join politely in the laughter but she did not see any
point to the story except that Creoles were just as stuck up as Charleston
and Savannah people. Moreover, she had always thought Ashley’s son
should have been named after him.
The musicians after preliminary tunings and whangings broke into “Old
Dan Tucker” and Tommy turned to her.
“Will you dance, Scarlett? I can’t favor you but Hugh or René—”
“No, thank you. I’m still mourning my mother,” said Scarlett hastily. “I
will sit them out.”
Her eyes singled out Frank Kennedy and beckoned him from the side of
Mrs. Elsing.
“I’ll sit in that alcove yonder if you’ll bring me some refreshments and
then we can have a nice chat,” she told Frank as the other three men
moved off.
When he had hurried away to bring her a glass of wine and a paper thin
slice of cake, Scarlett sat down in the alcove at the end of the drawing
room and carefully arranged her skirts so that the worst spots would not
show. The humiliating events of the morning with Rhett were pushed from
her mind by the excitement of seeing so many people and hearing music
again. Tomorrow she would think of Rhett’s conduct and her shame and
they would make her writhe again. Tomorrow she would wonder if she had
made any impression on Frank’s hurt and bewildered heart. But not
tonight. Tonight she was alive to her finger tips, every sense alert with
hope, her eyes sparkling.
She looked from the alcove into the huge drawing room and watched
the dancers, remembering how beautiful this room had been when first she
came to Atlanta during the war. Then the hardwood floors had shone like
glass, and overhead the chandelier with its hundreds of tiny prisms had
caught and reflected every ray of the dozens of candles it bore, flinging
them, like gleams from diamonds, flame and sapphire about the room. The
old portraits on the walls had been dignified and gracious and had looked
down upon guests with an air of mellowed hospitality. The rosewood sofas
had been soft and inviting and one of them, the largest, had stood in the
place of honor in this same alcove where she now sat. It had been Scarlett’s
favorite seat at parties. From this point stretched the pleasant vista of
drawing room and dining room beyond, the oval mahogany table which
seated twenty and the twenty slim-legged chairs demurely against the walls,
the massive sideboard and buffet weighed with heavy silver, with seven-
branched candlesticks, goblets, cruets, decanters and shining little glasses.
Scarlett had sat on that sofa so often in the first years of the war, always
with some handsome officer beside her, and listened to violin and bull
fiddle, accordion and banjo, and heard the exciting swishing noises which
dancing feet made on the waxed and polished floor.
Now the chandelier hung dark. It was twisted askew and most of the
prisms were broken, as if the Yankee occupants had made their beauty a
target for their boots. Now an oil lamp and a few candles lighted the room
and the roaring fire in the wide hearth gave most of the illumination. Its
flickering light showed how irreparably scarred and splintered the dull old
floor was. Squares on the faded paper on the wall gave evidence that once
the portraits had hung there, and wide cracks in the plaster recalled the day
during the siege when a shell had exploded on the house and torn off parts
of the roof and second floor. The heavy old mahogany table, spread with
cake and decanters, still presided in the empty-looking dining room but it
was scratched and the broken legs showed signs of clumsy repair. The
sideboard, the silver and the spindly chairs were gone. The dull-gold
damask draperies which had covered the arching French windows at the
back of the room were missing, and only the remnants of the lace curtains
remained, clean but obviously mended.
In place of the curved sofa she had liked so much was a hard bench that
was none too comfortable. She sat upon it with as good grace as possible,
wishing her skirts were in such condition that she could dance. It would be
so good to dance again. But, of course, she could do more with Frank in
this sequestered alcove than in a breathless reel and she could listen
fascinated to his talk and encourage him to greater flights of foolishness.
But the music certainly was inviting. Her slipper patted longingly in
time with old Levi’s large splayed foot as he twanged a strident banjo and
called the figures of the reel. Feet swished and scraped and patted as the
twin lines danced toward each other, retreated, whirled and made arches of
their arms.
“‘Ole Dan Tucker he got drunk—’
(Swing yo’ padners!)
‘Fell in de fiah an’ he kick up a chunk!’
(Skip light, ladies!)”
After the dull and exhausting months at Tara it was good to hear music
again and the sound of dancing feet, good to see familiar friendly faces
laughing in the feeble light, calling old jokes and catchwords, bantering,
rallying, coquetting. It was like coming to life again after being dead. It
almost seemed that the bright days of five years ago had come back again. If
she could close her eyes and not see the worn made-over dresses and the
patched boots and mended slippers, if her mind did not call up the faces of
boys missing from the reel, she might almost think that nothing had
changed. But as she looked, watching the old men grouped about the
decanter in the dining room, the matrons lining the walls, talking behind
fanless hands, and the swaying, skipping young dancers, it came to her
suddenly, coldly, frighteningly that it was all as greatly changed as if these
familiar figures were ghosts.
They looked the same but they were different. What was it? Was it only
that they were five years older? No, it was something more than the passing
of time. Something had gone out of them, out of their world. Five years
ago, a feeling of security had wrapped them all around so gently they were
not even aware of it. In its shelter they had flowered. Now it was gone and
with it had gone the old thrill, the old sense of something delightful and
exciting just around the corner, the old glamor of their way of living.
She knew she had changed too, but not as they had changed, and it
puzzled her. She sat and watched them and she felt herself an alien among
them, as alien and lonely as if she had come from another world, speaking a
language they did not understand and she not understanding theirs. Then
she knew that this feeling was the same one she felt with Ashley. With him
and with people of his kind—and they made up most of her world—she felt
outside of something she could not understand.
Their faces were little changed and their manners not at all but it
seemed to her that these two things were all that remained of her old
friends. An ageless dignity, a timeless gallantry still clung about them and
would cling until they died but they would carry undying bitterness to their
graves, a bitterness too deep for words. They were a soft-spoken, fierce,
tired people who were defeated and would not know defeat, broken yet
standing determinedly erect. They were crushed and helpless, citizens of
conquered provinces. They were looking on the state they loved, seeing it
trampled by the enemy, rascals making a mock of the law, their former
slaves a menace, their men disfranchised, their women insulted. And they
were remembering graves.
Everything in their old world had changed but the old forms. The old
usages went on, must go on, for the forms were all that were left to them.
They were holding tightly to the things they knew best and loved best in
the old days, the leisured manners, the courtesy, the pleasant casualness in
human contacts and, most of all, the protecting attitude of the men toward
their women. True to the tradition in which they had been reared, the men
were courteous and tender and they almost succeeded in creating an
atmosphere of sheltering their women from all that was harsh and unfit for
feminine eyes. That, thought Scarlett, was the height of absurdity, for there
was little, now, which even the most cloistered women had not seen and
known in the last five years. They had nursed the wounded, closed dying
eyes, suffered war and fire and devastation, known terror and flight and
starvation.
But, no matter what sights they had seen, what menial tasks they had
done and would have to do, they remained ladies and gentlemen, royalty in
exile—bitter, aloof, incurious, kind to one another, diamond hard, as bright
and brittle as the crystals of the broken chandelier over their heads. The
old days had gone but these people would go their ways as if the old days
still existed, charming, leisurely, determined not to rush and scramble for
pennies as the Yankees did, determined to part with none of the old ways.
Scarlett knew that she, too, was greatly changed. Otherwise she could
not have done the things she had done since she was last in Atlanta;
otherwise she would not now be contemplating doing what she desperately
hoped to do. But there was a difference in their hardness and hers and just
what the difference was, she could not, for the moment, tell. Perhaps it was
that there was nothing she would not do, and there were so many things
these people would rather die than do. Perhaps it was that they were
without hope but still smiling at life, bowing gracefully and passing it by.
And this Scarlett could not do.
She could not ignore life. She had to live it and it was too brutal, too
hostile, for her even to try to gloss over its harshness with a smile. Of the
sweetness and courage and unyielding pride of her friends, Scarlett saw
nothing. She saw only a silly stiff-neckedness which observed facts but
smiled and refused to look them in the face.
As she stared at the dancers, flushed from the reel, she wondered if
things drove them as she was driven, dead lovers, maimed husbands,
children who were hungry, acres slipping away, beloved roofs that sheltered
strangers. But, of course, they were driven! She knew their circumstances
only a little less thoroughly than she knew her own. Their losses had been
her losses, their privations her privations, their problems her same
problems. Yet they had reacted differently to them. The faces she was
seeing in the room were not faces; they were masks, excellent masks which
would never drop.
But if they were suffering as acutely from brutal circumstances as she was
—and they were—how could they maintain this air of gaiety and lightness
of heart? Why, indeed, should they even try to do it? They were beyond her
comprehension and vaguely irritating. She couldn’t be like them. She
couldn’t survey the wreck of the world with an air of casual unconcern. She
was as hunted as a fox, running with a bursting heart, trying to reach a
burrow before the hounds caught up.
Suddenly she hated them all because they were different from her,
because they carried their losses with an air that she could never attain,
would never wish to attain. She hated them, these smiling, light-footed
strangers, these proud fools who took pride in something they had lost,
seeming to be proud that they had lost it. The women bore themselves like
ladies, though menial tasks were their daily lot and they didn’t know where
their next dress was coming from. Ladies all! But she could not feel herself
a lady, for all her velvet dress and scented hair, for all the pride of birth that
stood behind her and the pride of wealth that had once been hers. Harsh
contact with the red earth of Tara had stripped gentility from her and she
knew she would never feel like a lady again until her table was weighted
with silver and crystal and smoking with rich food, until her own horses
and carriages stood in her stables, until black hands and not white took the
cotton from Tara.
“Ah!” she thought angrily, sucking in her breath. “That’s the difference!
Even though they’re poor, they still feel like ladies and I don’t. The silly
fools don’t seem to realize that you can’t be a lady without money!”
Even in this flash of revelation, she realized vaguely that, foolish though
they seemed, theirs was the right attitude. Ellen would have thought so.
This disturbed her. She knew she should feel as these people felt, but she
could not. She knew she should believe devoutly, as they did, that a born
lady remained a lady, even if reduced to poverty, but she could not make
herself believe it now.
All her life she had heard sneers hurled at the Yankees because their
pretensions to gentility were based on wealth, not breeding. But at this
moment, heresy though it was, she could not help thinking the Yankees
were right on this one matter, even if wrong in all others. It took money to
be a lady. She knew Ellen would have fainted had she ever heard such
words from her daughter. No depth of poverty could ever have made Ellen
feel ashamed. Ashamed! Yes, that was how Scarlett felt. Ashamed that she
was poor and reduced to galling shifts and penury and work that negroes
should do.
She shrugged in irritation. Perhaps these people were right and she was
wrong but, just the same, these proud fools weren’t looking forward as she
was doing, straining every nerve, risking even honor and good name to get
back what they had lost. It was beneath the dignity of many of them to
indulge in a scramble for money. The times were rude and hard. They
called for rude and hard struggle if one was to conquer them. Scarlett knew
that family tradition would forcibly restrain many of these people from such
a struggle—with the making of money admittedly its aim. They all thought
that obvious money-making and even talk of money were vulgar in the
extreme. Of course, there were exceptions. Mrs. Merriwether and her
baking and René driving the pie wagon. And Hugh Elsing cutting and
peddling firewood and Tommy contracting. And Frank having the
gumption to start a store. But what of the rank and file of them? The
planters would scratch a few acres and live in poverty. The lawyers and
doctors would go back to their professions and wait for clients who might
never come. And the rest, those who had lived in leisure on their incomes?
What would happen to them?
But she wasn’t going to be poor all her life. She wasn’t going to sit down
and patiently wait for a miracle to help her. She was going to rush into life
and wrest from it what she could. Her father had started as a poor
immigrant boy and had won the broad acres of Tara. What he had done,
his daughter could do. She wasn’t like these people who had gambled
everything on a Cause, because it was worth any sacrifice. They drew their
courage from the past. She was drawing hers from the future. Frank
Kennedy, at present, was her future. At least, he had the store and he had
cash money. And if she could marry him and get her hands on that money,
she could make ends meet at Tara for another year. And after that—Frank
must buy the sawmill. She could see for herself how quickly the town was
rebuilding and anyone who could establish a lumber business now, when
there was so little competition, would have a gold mine.
There came to her, from the recesses of her mind, words Rhett had
spoken in the early years of the war about the money he made in the
blockade. She had not taken the trouble to understand them then, but now
they seemed perfectly clear and she wondered if it had been only her youth
or plain stupidity which had kept her from appreciating them.
“There’s just as much money to be made in the wreck of a civilization as
in the upbuilding of one.”
“This is the wreck he foresaw,” she thought, “and he was right. There’s
still plenty of money to be made by anyone who isn’t afraid to work—or to
grab.”
She saw Frank coming across the floor toward her with a glass of
blackberry wine in his hand and a morsel of cake on a saucer and she pulled
her face into a smile. It did not occur to her to question whether Tara was
worth marrying Frank. She knew it was worth it and she never gave the
matter a second thought.
She smiled up at him as she sipped the wine, knowing that her cheeks
were more attractively pink than any of the dancers’. She moved her skirts
for him to sit by her and waved her handkerchief idly so that the faint
sweet smell of the cologne could reach his nose. She was proud of the
cologne, for no other woman in the room was wearing any and Frank had
noticed it. In a fit of daring he had whispered to her that she was as pink
and fragrant as a rose.
If only he were not so shy! He reminded her of a timid old brown field
rabbit. If only he had the gallantry and ardor of the Tarleton boys or even
the coarse impudence of Rhett Butler. But, if he possessed those qualities,
he’d probably have sense enough to feel the desperation that lurked just
beneath her demurely fluttering eyelids. As it was, he didn’t know enough
about women even to suspect what she was up to. That was her good
fortune but it did not increase her respect for him.
