THEY CROSSED THE RIVER and the carriage mounted the hill. Even before
Twelve Oaks came into view Scarlett saw a haze of smoke hanging lazily in
the tops of the tall trees and smelled the mingled savory odors of burning
hickory logs and roasting pork and mutton.
The barbecue pits, which had been slowly burning since last night,
would now be long troughs of rose-red embers, with the meats turning on
spits above them and the juices trickling down and hissing into the coals.
Scarlett knew that the fragrance carried on the faint breeze came from the
grove of great oaks in the rear of the big house. John Wilkes always held his
barbecues there, on the gentle slope leading down to the rose garden, a
pleasant shady place and a far pleasanter place, for instance, than that used
by the Calverts. Mrs. Calvert did not like barbecue food and declared that
the smells remained in the house for days, so her guests always sweltered on
a flat unshaded spot a quarter of a mile from the house. But John Wilkes,
famed throughout the state for his hospitality, really knew how to give a
barbecue.
The long trestled picnic tables, covered with the finest of the Wilkes’
linen, always stood under the thickest shade, with backless benches on
either side; and chairs, hassocks and cushions from the house were
scattered about the glade for those who did not fancy the benches. At a
distance great enough to keep the smoke away from the guests were the
long pits where the meats cooked and the huge iron wash-pots from which
the succulent odors of barbecue sauce and Brunswick stew floated. Mr.
Wilkes always had at least a dozen darkies running back and forth with
trays to serve the guests. Over behind the barns there was always another
barbecue pit, where the house servants and the coachmen and maids of the
guests had their own feast of hoecakes and yams and chitterlings, that dish
of hog entrails so dear to negro hearts, and, in season, watermelons enough
to satiate.
As the smell of crisp fresh pork came to her, Scarlett wrinkled her nose
appreciatively, hoping that by the time it was cooked she would feel some
appetite. As it was, she was so full of food and so tightly laced that she
feared every moment she was going to belch. That would be fatal, as only
old men and very old ladies could belch without fear of social disapproval.
They topped the rise and the white house reared its perfect symmetry
before her, tall of columns, wide of verandas, flat of roof, beautiful as a
woman is beautiful who is so sure of her charm that she can be generous
and gracious to all. Scarlett loved Twelve Oaks even more than Tara, for it
had a stately beauty, a mellowed dignity that Gerald’s house did not possess.
The wide curving driveway was full of saddle horses and carriages and
guests alighting and calling greetings to friends. Grinning negroes, excited
as always at a party, were leading the animals to the barnyard to be
unharnessed and unsaddled for the day. Swarms of children, black and
white, ran yelling about the newly green lawn, playing hopscotch and tag
and boasting how much they were going to eat. The wide hall which ran
from front to back of the house was swarming with people, and as the
O’Hara carriage drew up at the front steps, Scarlett saw girls in crinolines,
bright as butterflies, going up and coming down the stairs from the second
floor, arms about each other’s waists, stopping to lean over the delicate
handrail of the banisters, laughing and calling to young men in the hall
below them.
Through the open French windows, she caught glimpses of the older
women seated in the drawing room, sedate in dark silks as they sat fanning
themselves and talking of babies and sicknesses and who had married
whom and why. The Wilkes butler, Tom, was hurrying through the halls, a
silver tray in his hands, bowing and grinning, as he offered tall glasses to
young men in fawn and gray trousers and fine ruffled linen shirts.
The sunny front veranda was thronged with guests. Yes, the whole
County was here, thought Scarlett. The four Tarleton boys and their father
leaned against the tall columns, the twins, Stuart and Brent, side by side,
inseparable as usual, Boyd and Tom with their father, James Tarleton. Mr.
Calvert was standing close by the side of his Yankee wife, who even after
fifteen years in Georgia never seemed to quite belong anywhere. Everyone
was very polite and kind to her because he felt sorry for her, but no one
could forget that she had compounded her initial error of birth by being the
governess of Mr. Calvert’s children. The two Calvert boys, Raiford and
Cade, were there with their dashing blonde sister, Cathleen, teasing the
dark-faced Joe Fontaine and Sally Munroe, his pretty bride-to-be. Alex and
Tony Fontaine were whispering in the ears of Dimity Munroe and sending
her into gales of giggles. There were families from as far as Lovejoy, ten
miles away, and from Fayetteville and Jonesboro, a few even from Atlanta
and Macon. The house seemed bursting with the crowd, and a ceaseless
babble of talking and laughter and giggles and shrill feminine squeaks and
screams rose and fell.
On the porch steps stood John Wilkes, silver-haired, erect, radiating the
quiet charm and hospitality that was as warm and never failing as the sun
of Georgia summer. Beside him Honey Wilkes, so called because she
indiscriminately addressed everyone from her father to the field hands by
that endearment, fidgeted and giggled as she called greetings to the arriving
guests.
Honey’s nervously obvious desire to be attractive to every man in sight
contrasted sharply with her father’s poise, and Scarlett had the thought
that perhaps there was something in what Mrs. Tarleton said, after all.
Certainly the Wilkes men got the family looks. The thick deep-gold lashes
that set off the gray eyes of John Wilkes and Ashley were sparse and
colorless in the faces of Honey and her sister India. Honey had the odd
lashless look of a rabbit, and India could be described by no other word
than plain.
India was nowhere to be seen, but Scarlett knew she probably was in the
kitchen giving final instructions to the servants. Poor India, thought
Scarlett, she’s had so much trouble keeping house since her mother died
that she’s never had the chance to catch any beau except Stuart Tarleton,
and it certainly wasn’t my fault if he thought I was prettier than she.
John Wilkes came down the steps to offer his arm to Scarlett. As she
descended from the carriage, she saw Suellen smirk and knew that she must
have picked out Frank Kennedy in the crowd.
“If I couldn’t catch a better beau than that old maid in britches!” she
thought contemptuously, as she stepped to the ground and smiled her
thanks to John Wilkes.
Frank Kennedy was hurrying to the carriage to assist Suellen, and
Suellen was bridling in a way that made Scarlett want to slap her. Frank
Kennedy might own more land than anyone in the County and he might
have a very kind heart, but these things counted for nothing against the
fact that he was forty, slight and nervous and had a thin ginger-colored
beard and an old-maidish, fussy way about him. However, remembering her
plan, Scarlett smothered her contempt and cast such a flashing smile of
greeting at him that he stopped short, his arm outheld to Suellen and
goggled at Scarlett in pleased bewilderment.
Scarlett’s eyes searched the crowd for Ashley, even while she made
pleasant small talk with John Wilkes, but he was not on the porch. There
were cries of greeting from a dozen voices and Stuart and Brent Tarleton
moved toward her. The Munroe girls rushed up to exclaim over her dress,
and she was speedily the center of a circle of voices that rose higher and
higher in efforts to be heard above the din. But where was Ashley? And
Melanie and Charles? She tried not to be obvious as she looked about and
peered down the hall into the laughing group inside.
As she chattered and laughed and cast quick glances into the house and
the yard, her eyes fell on a stranger, standing alone in the hall, staring at
her in a cool impertinent way that brought her up sharply with a mingled
feeling of feminine pleasure that she had attracted a man and an
embarrassed sensation that her dress was too low in the bosom. He looked
quite old, at least thirty-five. He was a tall man and powerfully built.
Scarlett thought she had never seen a man with such wide shoulders, so
heavy with muscles, almost too heavy for gentility. When her eye caught
his, he smiled, showing animal-white teeth below a close-clipped black
mustache. He was dark of face, swarthy as a pirate, and his eyes were as
bold and black as any pirate’s appraising a galleon to be scuttled or a
maiden to be ravished. There was a cool recklessness in his face and a
cynical humor in his mouth as he smiled at her, and Scarlett caught her
breath. She felt that she should be insulted by such a look and was annoyed
with herself because she did not feel insulted. She did not know who he
could be, but there was undeniably a look of good blood in his dark face. It
showed in the thin hawk nose over the full red lips, the high forehead and
the wide-set eyes.
She dragged her eyes away from his without smiling back, and he turned
as someone called: “Rhett! Rhett Butler! Come here! I want you to meet
the most hard-hearted girl in Georgia.”
Rhett Butler? The name had a familiar sound, somehow connected with
something pleasantly scandalous, but her mind was on Ashley and she
dismissed the thought.
“I must run upstairs and smooth my hair,” she told Stuart and Brent,
who were trying to get her cornered from the crowd. “You boys wait for me
and don’t run off with any other girl or I’ll be furious.”
She could see that Stuart was going to be difficult to handle today if she
flirted with anyone else. He had been drinking and wore the arrogant
looking-for-a-fight expression that she knew from experience meant
trouble. She paused in the hall to speak to friends and to greet India who
was emerging from the back of the house, her hair untidy and tiny beads of
perspiration on her forehead. Poor India! It would be bad enough to have
pale hair and eyelashes and a jutting chin that meant a stubborn
disposition, without being twenty years old and an old maid in the bargain.
She wondered if India resented very much her taking Stuart away from her.
Lots of people said she was still in love with him, but then you could never
tell what a Wilkes was thinking about. If she did resent it, she never gave
any sign of it, treating Scarlett with the same slightly aloof, kindly courtesy
she had always shown her.
Scarlett spoke pleasantly to her and started up the wide stairs. As she
did, a shy voice behind her called her name and, turning, she saw Charles
Hamilton. He was a nice-looking boy with a riot of soft brown curls on his
white forehead and eyes as deep brown, as clean and as gentle as a collie
dog’s. He was well turned out in mustard-colored trousers and black coat
and his pleated shirt was topped by the widest and most fashionable of
black cravats. A faint blush was creeping over his face as she turned, for he
was timid with girls. Like most shy men he greatly admired airy, vivacious,
always-at-ease girls like Scarlett. She had never given him more than
perfunctory courtesy before, and so the beaming smile of pleasure with
which she greeted him and the two hands outstretched to his almost took
his breath away.
“Why, Charles Hamilton, you handsome old thing, you! I’ll bet you
came all the way down here from Atlanta just to break my poor heart!”
Charles almost stuttered with excitement, holding her warm little hands
in his and looking into the dancing green eyes. This was the way girls
talked to other boys but never to him. He never knew why but girls always
treated him like a younger brother and were very kind, but never bothered
to tease him. He had always wanted girls to flirt and frolic with him as they
did with boys much less handsome and less endowed with this world’s
goods than he. But on the few occasions when this had happened he could
never think of anything to say and he suffered agonies of embarrassment at
his dumbness. Then he lay awake at night thinking of all the charming
gallantries he might have employed; but he rarely got a second chance, for
the girls left him alone after a trial or two.
Even with Honey, with whom he had an unspoken understanding of
marriage when he came into his property next fall, he was diffident and
silent. At times, he had an ungallant feeling that Honey’s coquetries and
proprietary airs were no credit to him, for she was so boy-crazy he imagined
she would use them on any man who gave her the opportunity. Charles was
not excited over the prospect of marrying her, for she stirred in him none of
the emotions of wild romance that his beloved books had assured him were
proper for a lover. He had always yearned to be loved by some beautiful,
dashing creature full of fire and mischief.
And here was Scarlett O’Hara teasing him about breaking her heart!
He tried to think of something to say and couldn’t, and silently he
blessed her because she kept up a steady chatter which relieved him of any
necessity for conversation. It was too good to be true.
“Now, you wait right here till I come back, for I want to eat barbecue
with you. And don’t you go off philandering with those other girls, because
I’m mighty jealous,” came the incredible words from red lips with a dimple
on each side; and briskly black lashes swept demurely over green eyes.
“I won’t,” he finally managed to breathe, never dreaming that she was
thinking he looked like a calf waiting for the butcher.
Tapping him lightly on the arm with her folded fan, she turned to start
up the stairs and her eyes again fell on the man called Rhett Butler, who
stood alone a few feet away from Charles. Evidently he had overheard the
whole conversation, for he grinned up at her as maliciously as a tomcat,
and again his eyes went over her, in a gaze totally devoid of the deference
she was accustomed to.
“God’s nightgown!” said Scarlett to herself in indignation, using
Gerald’s favorite oath. “He looks as if—as if he knew what I looked like
without my shimmy,” and, tossing her head, she went up the steps.
In the bedroom where the wraps were laid, she found Cathleen Calvert
preening before the mirror and biting her lips to make them redder. There
were fresh roses in her sash that matched her cheeks, and her cornflower-
blue eyes were dancing with excitement.
“Cathleen,” said Scarlett, trying to pull the corsage of her dress higher,
“who is that nasty man downstairs named Butler?”
“My dear, don’t you know?” whispered Cathleen excitedly, a weather eye
on the next room where Dilcey and the Wilkes girls’ mammy were
gossiping. “I can’t imagine how Mr. Wilkes must feel having him here, but
he was visiting Mr. Kennedy in Jonesboro—something about buying cotton
—and, of course, Mr. Kennedy had to bring him along with him. He
couldn’t just go off and leave him.”
“What is the matter with him?”
“My dear, he isn’t received!”
“Not really!”
“No.”
Scarlett digested this in silence, for she had never before been under the
same roof with anyone who was not received. It was very exciting.
“What did he do?”
“Oh, Scarlett, he has the most terrible reputation. His name is Rhett
Butler and he’s from Charleston and his folks are some of the nicest people
there, but they won’t even speak to him. Caro Rhett told me about him last
summer. He isn’t any kin to her family, but she knows all about him,
everybody does. He was expelled from West Point. Imagine! And for things
too bad for Caro to know. And then there was that business about the girl
he didn’t marry.”
“Do tell me!”
“Darling, don’t you know anything? Caro told me all about it last
summer and her mama would die if she thought Caro even knew about it.
Well, this Mr. Butler took a Charleston girl out buggy riding. I never did
know who she was, but I’ve got my suspicions. She couldn’t have been very
nice or she wouldn’t have gone out with him in the late afternoon without
a chaperon. And, my dear, they stayed out nearly all night and walked
home finally, saying the horse had run away and smashed the buggy and
they had gotten lost in the woods. And guess what—”
“I can’t guess. Tell me,” said Scarlett enthusiastically, hoping for the
worst.
“He refused to marry her the next day!”
“Oh,” said Scarlett, her hopes dashed.
“He said he hadn’t—er—done anything to her and he didn’t see why he
should marry her. And, of course, her brother called him out, and Mr.
Butler said he’d rather be shot than marry a stupid fool. And so they fought
a duel and Mr. Butler had to leave Charleston and now nobody receives
him,” finished Cathleen triumphantly, and just in time, for Dilcey came
back into the room to oversee the toilet of her charge.
“Did she have a baby?” whispered Scarlett in Cathleen’s ear.
Cathleen shook her head violently. “But she was ruined just the same,”
she hissed back.
“I wish I had gotten Ashley to compromise me,” thought Scarlett
suddenly. “He’d be too much of a gentleman not to marry me. But
somehow, unbidden, she had a feeling of respect for Rhett Butler for
refusing to marry a girl who was a fool.”
* * *
Scarlett sat on a high rosewood ottoman, under the shade of a huge oak in
the rear of the house, her flounces and ruffles billowing about her and two
inches of green morocco slippers—all that a lady could show and still
remain a lady—peeping from beneath them. She had a scarcely touched
plate in her hands and seven cavaliers about her. The barbecue had
reached its peak and the warm air was full of laughter and talk, the click of
silver on porcelain and the rich heavy smells of roasting meats and redolent
gravies. Occasionally when the slight breeze veered, puffs of smoke from
the long barbecue pits floated over the crowd and were greeted with squeals
of mock dismay from the ladies and violent flappings of palmetto fans.
Most of the young ladies were seated with partners on the long benches
that faced the tables, but Scarlett, realizing that a girl has only two sides
and only one man can sit on each of these sides, had elected to sit apart so
she could gather about her as many men as possible.
Under the arbor sat the married women, their dark dresses decorous
notes in the surrounding color and gaiety. Matrons, regardless of their ages,
always grouped together apart from the bright-eyed girls, beaux and
laughter, for there were no married belles in the South. From Grandma
Fontaine, who was belching frankly with the privilege of her age, to
seventeen-year-old Alice Munroe, struggling against the nausea of a first
pregnancy, they had their heads together in the endless genealogical and
obstetrical discussions that made such gatherings very pleasant and
instructive affairs.
Casting contemptuous glances at them, Scarlett thought that they
looked like a clump of fat crows. Married women never had any fun. It did
not occur to her that if she married Ashley she would automatically be
relegated to arbors and front parlors with staid matrons in dull silks, as staid
and dull as they and not a part of the fun and frolicking. Like most girls,
her imagination carried her just as far as the altar and no further. Besides,
she was too unhappy now to pursue an abstraction.
She dropped her eyes to her plate and nibbled daintily on a beaten
biscuit with an elegance and an utter lack of appetite that would have won
Mammy’s approval. For all that she had a superfluity of beaux, she had
never been more miserable in her life. In some way that she could not
understand, her plans of last night had failed utterly so far as Ashley was
concerned. She had attracted other beaux by the dozens, but not Ashley,
and all the fears of yesterday afternoon were sweeping back upon her,
making her heart beat fast and then slow, and color flame and whiten in
her cheeks.
Ashley made no attempt to join the circle about her, in fact she had not
had a word alone with him since arriving, or even spoken to him since
their first greeting. He had come forward to welcome her when she came
into the back garden, but Melanie had been on his arm then, Melanie who
hardly came up to his shoulder.
She was a tiny, frailly built girl, who gave the appearance of a child
masquerading in her mother’s enormous hoop skirts—an illusion that was
heightened by the shy, almost frightened look in her too large brown eyes.
She had a cloud of curly dark hair which was so sternly repressed beneath
its net that no vagrant tendrils escaped, and this dark mass, with its long
widow’s peak, accentuated the heart shape of her face. Too wide across the
cheek bones, too pointed at the chin, it was a sweet, timid face but a plain
face, and she had no feminine tricks of allure to make observers forget its
plainness. She looked—and was—as simple as earth, as good as bread, as
transparent as spring water. But for all her plainness of feature and
smallness of stature, there was a sedate dignity about her movements that
was oddly touching and far older than her seventeen years.
Her gray organdie dress, with its cherry-colored satin sash, disguised
with its billows and ruffles how childishly undeveloped her body was, and
the yellow hat with long cherry streamers made her creamy skin glow. Her
heavy earbobs with their long gold fringe hung down from loops of tidily
netted hair, swinging close to her brown eyes, eyes that had the still gleam
of a forest pool in winter when brown leaves shine up through quiet water.
She had smiled with timid liking when she greeted Scarlett and told her
how pretty her green dress was, and Scarlett had been hard put to be even
civil in reply, so violently did she want to speak alone with Ashley. Since
then, Ashley had sat on a stool at Melanie’s feet, apart from the other
guests, and talked quietly with her, smiling the slow drowsy smile that
Scarlett loved. What made matters worse was that under his smile a little
sparkle had come into Melanie’s eyes, so that even Scarlett had to admit
that she looked almost pretty. As Melanie looked at Ashley, her plain face
lit up as with an inner fire, for if ever a loving heart showed itself upon a
face, it was showing now on Melanie Hamilton’s.
Scarlett tried to keep her eyes from these two but could not, and after
each glance she redoubled her gaiety with her cavaliers, laughing, saying
daring things, teasing, tossing her head at their compliments, until her
earrings danced. She said “fiddle-dee-dee!” many times, declared that the
truth wasn’t in any of them, and vowed that she’d never believe anything
any man told her. But Ashley did not seem to notice her at all. He only
looked up at Melanie and talked on, and Melanie looked down at him with
an expression that radiated the fact that she belonged to him.
So, Scarlett was miserable.
To the outward eye, never had a girl less cause to be miserable. She was
undoubtedly the belle of the barbecue, the center of attention. The furore
she was causing among the men, coupled with the heart burnings of the
other girls, would have pleased her enormously at any other time.
Charles Hamilton, emboldened by her notice, was firmly planted on her
right, refusing to be dislodged by the combined efforts of the Tarleton
twins. He held her fan in one hand and his untouched plate of barbecue in
the other and stubbornly refused to meet the eyes of Honey, who seemed
on the verge of an outburst of tears. Cade lounged gracefully on her left,
plucking at her skirt to attract her attention and staring up with smoldering
eyes at Stuart. Already the air was electric between him and the twins and
rude words had passed. Frank Kennedy fussed about like a hen with one
chick, running back and forth from the shade of the oak to the tables to
fetch dainties to tempt Scarlett, as if there were not a dozen servants there
for that purpose. As a result, Suellen’s sullen resentment had passed beyond
the point of ladylike concealment and she glowered at Scarlett. Small
Carreen could have cried because, for all Scarlett’s encouraging words that
morning, Brent had done no more than say “Hello, Sis” and jerk her hair
ribbon before turning his full attention to Scarlett. Usually he was so kind
and treated her with a careless deference that made her feel grown up, and
Carreen secretly dreamed of the day when she would put her hair up and
her skirts down and receive him as a real beau. And now it seemed that
Scarlett had him. The Munroe girls were concealing their chagrin at the
defection of the swarthy Fontaine boys, but they were annoyed at the way
Tony and Alex stood about the circle, jockeying for a position near Scarlett
should any of the others arise from their places.
They telegraphed their disapproval of Scarlett’s conduct to Hetty
Tarleton by delicately raised eyebrows. “Fast” was the only word for
Scarlett. Simultaneously, the three young ladies raised lacy parasols, said
they had had quite enough to eat, thank you, and, laying light fingers on
the arms of the men nearest them, clamored sweetly to see the rose garden,
the spring and the summerhouse. This strategic retreat in good order was
not lost on a woman present or observed by a man.
Scarlett giggled as she saw three men dragged out of the line of her
charms to investigate landmarks familiar to the girls from childhood, and
cut her eye sharply to see if Ashley had taken note. But he was playing
with the ends of Melanie’s sash and smiling up at her. Pain twisted
Scarlett’s heart. She felt that she could claw Melanie’s ivory skin till the
blood ran and take pleasure in doing it.
As her eyes wandered from Melanie, she caught the gaze of Rhett Butler,
who was not mixing with the crowd but standing apart talking to John
Wilkes. He had been watching her and when she looked at him he laughed
outright. Scarlett had an uneasy feeling that this man who was not received
was the only one present who knew what lay behind her wild gaiety and
that it was affording him sardonic amusement. She could have clawed him
with pleasure too.
“If I can just live through this barbecue till this afternoon,” she thought,
“all the girls will go upstairs to take naps to be fresh for tonight and I’ll stay
downstairs and get to talk to Ashley. Surely he must have noticed how
popular I am.” She soothed her heart with another hope: “Of course, he has
to be attentive to Melanie because, after all, she is his cousin and she isn’t
popular at all, and if he didn’t look out for her she’d just be a wallflower.”
She took new courage at this thought and redoubled her efforts in the
direction of Charles, whose brown eyes glowed down eagerly at her. It was a
wonderful day for Charles, a dream day, and he had fallen in love with
Scarlett with no effort at all. Before this new emotion, Honey receded into
a dim haze. Honey was a shrill-voiced sparrow and Scarlett a gleaming
hummingbird. She teased him and favored him and asked him questions
and answered them herself, so that he appeared very clever without having
to say a word. The other boys were puzzled and annoyed by her obvious
interest in him, for they knew Charles was too shy to hitch two
consecutive words together, and politeness was being severely strained to
conceal their growing rage. Everyone was smoldering, and it would have
been a positive triumph for Scarlett, except for Ashley.
When the last forkful of pork and chicken and mutton had been eaten,
Scarlett hoped the time had come when India would rise and suggest that
the ladies retire to the house. It was two o’clock and the sun was warm
overhead, but India, wearied with the three-day preparations for the
barbecue, was only too glad to remain sitting beneath the arbor, shouting
remarks to a deaf old gentleman from Fayetteville.
A lazy somnolence descended on the crowd. The negroes idled about,
clearing the long tables on which the food had been laid. The laughter and
talking became less animated and groups here and there fell silent. All were
waiting for their hostess to signal the end of the morning’s festivities.
Palmetto fans were wagging more slowly, and several gentlemen were
nodding from the heat and overloaded stomachs. The barbecue was over
and all were content to take their ease while the sun was at its height.
In this interval between the morning party and the evening’s ball, they
seemed a placid, peaceful lot. Only the young men retained the restless
energy which had filled the whole throng a short while before. Moving
from group to group, drawling in their soft voices, they were as handsome
as blooded stallions and as dangerous. The languor of midday had taken
hold of the gathering, but underneath lurked tempers that could rise to
killing heights in a second and flare out as quickly. Men and women, they
were beautiful and wild, all a little violent under their pleasant ways and
only a little tamed.
Some time dragged by while the sun grew hotter, and Scarlett and
others looked again toward India. Conversation was dying out when, in the
lull, everyone in the grove heard Gerald’s voice raised in furious accents.
Standing some little distance away from the barbecue tables, he was at the
peak of an argument with John Wilkes.
“God’s nightgown, man! Pray for a peaceable settlement with the
Yankees? After we’ve fired on the rascals at Fort Sumter? Peaceable? The
South should show by arms that she cannot be insulted and that she is not
leaving the Union by the Union’s kindness but by her own strength!”
“Oh, my God!” thought Scarlett. “He’s done it! Now, we’ll all sit here
till midnight.”
In an instant, the somnolence had fled from the lounging throng and
something electric went snapping through the air. The men sprang from
benches and chairs, arms in wide gestures, voices clashing for the right to
be heard above other voices. There had been no talk of politics or
impending war all during the morning, because of Mr. Wilkes’ request that
the ladies should not be bored. But now Gerald had bawled the words “Fort
Sumter,” and every man present forgot his host’s admonition.
“Of course we’ll fight—” “Yankee thieves—” “We could lick them in a
month—” “Why, one Southerner can lick twenty Yankees—” “Teach them
a lesson they won’t soon forget—” “Peaceably? They won’t let us go in
peace—” “No, look how Mr. Lincoln insulted our Commissioners!” “Yes,
kept them hanging around for weeks—swearing he’d have Sumter
evacuated!” “They want war; we’ll make them sick of war—” And above all
the voices, Gerald’s boomed. All Scarlett could hear was “States’ rights, by
God!” shouted over and over. Gerald was having an excellent time, but not
his daughter.
Secession, war—these words long since had become acutely boring to
Scarlett from much repetition, but now she hated the sound of them, for
they meant that the men would stand there for hours haranguing one
another and she would have no chance to corner Ashley. Of course there
would be no war and the men all knew it. They just loved to talk and hear
themselves talk.
Charles Hamilton had not risen with the others and, finding himself
comparatively alone with Scarlett, he leaned closer and, with the daring
born of new love, whispered a confession.
“Miss O’Hara—I—I had already decided that if we did fight, I’d go over
to South Carolina and join a troop there. It’s said that Mr. Wade Hampton
is organizing a cavalry troop, and of course I would want to go with him.
He’s a splendid person and was my father’s best friend.”
Scarlett thought, “What am I supposed to do—give three cheers?” for
Charles’ expression showed that he was baring his heart’s secrets to her.
She could think of nothing to say and so merely looked at him, wondering
why men were such fools as to think women interested in such matters. He
took her expression to mean stunned approbation and went on rapidly,
daringly—
“If I went—would—would you be sorry, Miss O’Hara?”
“I should cry into my pillow every night,” said Scarlett, meaning to be
flippant, but he took the statement at face value and went red with
pleasure. Her hand was concealed in the folds of her dress and he
cautiously wormed his hand to it and squeezed it, overwhelmed at his own
boldness and at her acquiescence.
“Would you pray for me?”
“What a fool!” thought Scarlett bitterly, casting a surreptitious glance
about her in the hope of being rescued from the conversation.
“Would you?”
“Oh—yes, indeed, Mr. Hamilton. Three Rosaries a night, at least!”
Charles gave a swift look about him, drew in his breath, stiffened the
muscles of his stomach. They were practically alone and he might never get
another such opportunity. And, even given another such Godsent
occasion, his courage might fail him.
“Miss O’Hara—I must tell you something. I—I love you!”
“Um?” said Scarlett absently, trying to peer through the crowd of
arguing men to where Ashley still sat talking at Melanie’s feet.
“Yes!” whispered Charles, in a rapture that she had neither laughed,
screamed nor fainted, as he had always imagined young girls did under such
circumstances. “I love you! You are the most—the most—” and he found
his tongue for the first time in his life. “The most beautiful girl I’ve ever
known and the sweetest and the kindest, and you have the dearest ways
and I love you with all my heart. I cannot hope that you could love anyone
like me but, my dear Miss O’Hara, if you can give me any encouragement, I
will do anything in the world to make you love me. I will—”
Charles stopped, for he couldn’t think of anything difficult enough of
accomplishment to really prove to Scarlett the depth of his feeling, so he
said simply: “I want to marry you.”
Scarlett came back to earth with a jerk, at the sound of the word
“marry.” She had been thinking of marriage and of Ashley, and she looked
at Charles with poorly concealed irritation. Why must this calf-like fool
intrude his feelings on this particular day when she was so worried she was
about to lose her mind? She looked into the pleading brown eyes and she
saw none of the beauty of a shy boy’s first love, of the adoration of an ideal
come true or the wild happiness and tenderness that were sweeping
through him like a flame. Scarlett was used to men asking her to marry
them, men much more attractive than Charles Hamilton, and men who
had more finesse than to propose at a barbecue when she had more
important matters on her mind. She only saw a boy of twenty, red as a beet
and looking very silly. She wished that she could tell him how silly he
looked. But automatically, the words Ellen had taught her to say in such
emergencies rose to her lips and casting down her eyes, from force of long
habit, she murmured: “Mr. Hamilton, I am not unaware of the honor you
have bestowed on me in wanting me to become your wife, but this is all so
sudden that I do not know what to say.”
That was a neat way of smoothing a man’s vanity and yet keeping him
on the string, and Charles rose to it as though such bait were new and he
the first to swallow it.
“I would wait forever! I wouldn’t want you unless you were quite sure.
Please, Miss O’Hara, tell me that I may hope!”
“Um,” said Scarlett, her sharp eyes noting that Ashley, who had not
risen to take part in the war talk, was smiling up at Melanie. If this fool
who was grappling for her hand would only keep quiet for a moment,
perhaps she could hear what they were saying. She must hear what they
said. What did Melanie say to him that brought that look of interest to his
eyes?
Charles’ words blurred the voices she strained to hear.
“Oh, hush!” she hissed at him, pinching his hand and not even looking
at him.
Startled, at first abashed, Charles blushed at the rebuff and then, seeing
how her eyes were fastened on his sister, he smiled. Scarlett was afraid
someone might hear his words. She was naturally embarrassed and shy, and
in agony lest they be overheard. Charles felt a surge of masculinity such as
he had never experienced, for this was the first time in his life that he had
ever embarrassed any girl. The thrill was intoxicating. He arranged his face
in what he fancied was an expression of careless unconcern and cautiously
returned Scarlett’s pinch to show that he was man of the world enough to
understand and accept her reproof.
She did not even feel his pinch, for she could hear clearly the sweet
voice that was Melanie’s chief charm: “I fear I cannot agree with you about
Mr. Thackeray’s works. He is a cynic. I fear he is not the gentleman Mr.
Dickens is.”
What a silly thing to say to a man, thought Scarlett, ready to giggle with
relief. Why, she’s no more than a bluestocking and everyone knows what
men think of bluestockings…. The way to get a man interested and to hold
his interest was to talk about him, and then gradually lead the conversation
around to yourself—and keep it there. Scarlett would have felt some cause
for alarm if Melanie had been saying: “How wonderful you are!” or “How
do you ever think of such things? My little ole brain would bust if I even
tried to think about them!” But here she was, with a man at her feet,
talking as seriously as if she were in church. The prospect looked brighter
to Scarlett, so bright in fact that she turned beaming eyes on Charles and
smiled from pure joy. Enraptured at this evidence of her affection, he
grabbed up her fan and plied it so enthusiastically her hair began to blow
about untidily.
“Ashley, you have not favored us with your opinion,” said Jim Tarleton,
turning from the group of shouting men, and with an apology Ashley
excused himself and rose. There was no one there so handsome, thought
Scarlett, as she marked how graceful was his negligent pose and how the
sun gleamed on his gold hair and mustache. Even the older men stopped to
listen to his words.
“Why, gentlemen, if Georgia fights, I’ll go with her. Why else would I
have joined the Troop?” he said. His gray eyes opened wide and their
drowsiness disappeared in an intensity that Scarlett had never seen before.
“But, like Father, I hope the Yankees will let us go in peace and that there
will be no fighting—” He held up his hand with a smile, as a babel of voices
from the Fontaine and Tarleton boys began. “Yes, yes, I know we’ve been
insulted and lied to—but if we’d been in the Yankees’ shoes and they were
trying to leave the Union, how would we have acted? Pretty much the
same. We wouldn’t have liked it.”
“There he goes again,” thought Scarlett. “Always putting himself in the
other fellow’s shoes.” To her, there was never but one fair side to an
argument. Sometimes, there was no understanding Ashley.
“Let’s don’t be too hot headed and let’s don’t have any war. Most of the
misery of the world has been caused by wars. And when the wars were over,
no one ever knew what they were all about.”
Scarlett sniffed. Lucky for Ashley that he had an unassailable reputation
for courage, or else there’d be trouble. As she thought this, the clamor of
dissenting voices rose up about Ashley, indignant, fiery.
Under the arbor, the deaf old gentleman from Fayetteville punched
India.
“What’s it all about? What are they saying?”
“War!” shouted India, cupping her hand to his ear. “They want to fight
the Yankees!”
“War, is it?” he cried, fumbling about him for his cane and heaving
himself out of his chair with more energy than he had shown in years. “I’ll
tell ’um about war. I’ve been there.” It was not often that Mr. McRae had
the opportunity to talk about war, the way his women folks shushed him.
He stumped rapidly to the group, waving his cane and shouting and,
because he could not hear the voices about him, he soon had undisputed
possession of the field.
“You fire-eating young bucks, listen to me. You don’t want to fight. I
fought and I know. Went out in the Seminole War and was a big enough
fool to go to the Mexican War, too. You all don’t know what war is. You
think it’s riding a pretty horse and having the girls throw flowers at you and
coming home a hero. Well, it ain’t. No, sir! It’s going hungry, and getting
the measles and pneumonia from sleeping in the wet. And if it ain’t
measles and pneumonia, it’s your bowels. Yes sir, what war does to a man’s
bowels—dysentery and things like that—”
The ladies were pink with blushes. Mr. McRae was a reminder of a
cruder era, like Grandma Fontaine and her embarrassingly loud belches, an
era everyone would like to forget.
“Run get your grandpa,” hissed one of the old gentleman’s daughters to a
young girl standing near by. “I declare,” she whispered to the fluttering
matrons about her, “he gets worse every day. Would you believe it, this very
morning he said to Mary—and she’s only sixteen: ‘Now, Missy…’” And the
voice went off into a whisper as the granddaughter slipped out to try to
induce Mr. McRae to return to his seat in the shade.
Of all the group that milled about under the trees, girls smiling
excitedly, men talking impassionedly, there was only one who seemed calm.
Scarlett’s eyes turned to Rhett Butler, who leaned against a tree, his hands
shoved deep in his trouser pockets. He stood alone, since Mr. Wilkes had
left his side, and had uttered no word as the conversation grew hotter. The
red lips under the close-clipped black mustache curled down and there was
a glint of amused contempt in his black eyes—contempt, as if he listened
to the braggings of children. A very disagreeable smile, Scarlett thought.
He listened quietly until Stuart Tarleton, his red hair tousled and his eyes
gleaming, repeated: “Why, we could lick them in a month! Gentlemen
always fight better than rabble. A month—why, one battle—”
“Gentlemen,” said Rhett Butler, in a flat drawl that bespoke his
Charleston birth, not moving from his position against the tree or taking
his hands from his pockets, “may I say a word?”
There was contempt in his manner as in his eyes, contempt overlaid
with an air of courtesy that somehow burlesqued their own manners.
The group turned toward him and accorded him the politeness due an
outsider.
“Has any one of you gentlemen ever thought that there’s not a cannon
factory south of the Mason-Dixon Line? Or how few iron foundries there
are in the South? Or woolen mills or cotton factories or tanneries? Have
you thought that we would not have a single warship and that the Yankee
fleet could bottle up our harbors in a week, so that we could not sell our
cotton abroad? But—of course—you gentlemen have thought of these
things.”
“Why, he means the boys are a passel of fools!” thought Scarlett
indignantly, the hot blood coming to her cheeks.
Evidently, she was not the only one to whom this idea occurred, for
several of the boys were beginning to stick out their chins. John Wilkes
casually but swiftly came back to his place beside the speaker, as if to
impress on all present that this man was his guest and that, moreover, there
were ladies present.
“The trouble with most of us Southerners,” continued Rhett Butler, “is
that we either don’t travel enough or we don’t profit enough by our travels.
Now, of course, all you gentlemen are well traveled. But what have you
seen? Europe and New York and Philadelphia and, of course, the ladies
have been to Saratoga” (he bowed slightly to the group under the arbor).
“You’ve seen the hotels and the museums and the balls and the gambling
houses. And you’ve come home believing that there’s no place like the
South. As for me, I was Charleston born, but I have spent the last few years
in the North.” His white teeth showed in a grin, as though he realized that
everyone present knew just why he no longer lived in Charleston, and
cared not at all if they did know. “I have seen many things that you all
have not seen. The thousands of immigrants who’d be glad to fight for the
Yankees for food and a few dollars, the factories, the foundries, the
shipyards, the iron and coal mines—all the things we haven’t got. Why, all
we have is cotton and slaves and arrogance. They’d lick us in a month.”
For a tense moment, there was silence. Rhett Butler removed a fine
linen handkerchief from his coat pocket and idly flicked dust from his
sleeve. Then an ominous murmuring arose in the crowd and from under
the arbor came a humming as unmistakable as that of a hive of newly
disturbed bees. Even while she felt the hot blood of wrath still in her
cheeks, something in Scarlett’s practical mind prompted the thought that
what this man said was right, and it sounded like common sense. Why,
she’d never even seen a factory, or known anyone who had seen a factory.
But, even if it were true, he was no gentleman to make such a statement—
and at a party, too, where everyone was having a good time.
Stuart Tarleton, brows lowering, came forward with Brent close at his
heels. Of course, the Tarleton twins had nice manners and they wouldn’t
make a scene at a barbecue, even though tremendously provoked. Just the
same, all the ladies felt pleasantly excited, for it was so seldom that they
actually saw a scene or a quarrel. Usually they had to hear of it thirdhand.
“Sir,” said Stuart heavily, “what do you mean?”
Rhett looked at him with polite but mocking eyes.
“I mean,” he answered, “what Napoleon—perhaps you’ve heard of him?
—remarked once, ‘God is on the side of the strongest battalion!’” and,
turning to John Wilkes, he said with courtesy that was unfeigned: “You
promised to show me your library, sir. Would it be too great a favor to ask to
see it now? I fear I must go back to Jonesboro early this afternoon where a
bit of business calls me.”
He swung about, facing the crowd, clicked his heels together and bowed
like a dancing master, a bow that was graceful for so powerful a man, and as
full of impertinence as a slap in the face. Then he walked across the lawn
with John Wilkes, his black head in the air, and the sound of his
discomforting laughter floated back to the group about the tables.
There was a startled silence and then the buzzing broke out again. India
rose tiredly from her seat beneath the arbor and went toward the angry
Stuart Tarleton. Scarlett could not hear what she said, but the look in her
eyes as she gazed up into his lowering face gave Scarlett something like a
twinge of conscience. It was the same look of belonging that Melanie wore
when she looked at Ashley, only Stuart did not see it. So India did love
him. Scarlett thought for an instant that if she had not flirted so blatantly
with Stuart at that political speaking a year ago, he might have married
India long ere this. But then the twinge passed with the comforting
thought that it wasn’t her fault if other girls couldn’t keep their men.
Finally Stuart smiled down at India, an unwilling smile, and nodded his
head. Probably India had been pleading with him not to follow Mr. Butler
and make trouble. A polite tumult broke under the trees as the guests arose,
shaking crumbs from laps. The married women called to nurses and small
children and gathered their broods together to take their departure, and
groups of girls started off, laughing and talking, toward the house to
exchange gossip in the upstairs bedrooms and to take their naps.
All the ladies except Mrs. Tarleton moved out of the back yard, leaving
the shade of oaks and arbor to the men. She was detained by Gerald, Mr.
Calvert and the others who wanted an answer from her about the horses for
the Troop.
Ashley strolled over to where Scarlett and Charles sat, a thoughtful and
amused smile on his face.
“Arrogant devil, isn’t he?” he observed, looking after Butler. “He looks
like one of the Borgias.”
Scarlett thought quickly but could remember no family in the County or
Atlanta or Savannah by that name.
“I don’t know them. Is he kin to them? Who are they?”
An odd look came over Charles’ face, incredulity and shame struggling
with love. Love triumphed as he realized that it was enough for a girl to be
sweet and gentle and beautiful, without having an education to hamper her
charms, and he made swift answer: “The Borgias were Italians.”
“Oh,” said Scarlett, losing interest, “foreigners.”
She turned her prettiest smile on Ashley, but for some reason he was not
looking at her. He was looking at Charles, and there was understanding in
his face and a little pity.
* * *
Scarlett stood on the landing and peered cautiously over the banisters into
the hall below. It was empty. From the bedrooms on the floor above came
an unending hum of low voices, rising and falling, punctuated with squeaks
of laughter and, “Now, you didn’t really!” and “What did he say then?” On
the beds and couches of the six great bedrooms, the girls were resting, their
dresses off, their stays loosed, their hair flowing down their backs.
Afternoon naps were a custom of the country and never were they so
necessary as on the all-day parties, beginning early in the morning and
culminating in a ball. For half an hour, the girls would chatter and laugh,
and then servants would pull in the shutters and in the warm half-gloom
the talk would die to whispers and finally expire in silence broken only by
soft regular breathing.
Scarlett had made certain that Melanie was lying down on the bed with
Honey and Hetty Tarleton before she slipped into the hall and started
down the stairs. From the window on the landing, she could see the group
of men sitting under the arbor, drinking from tall glasses, and she knew
they would remain there until late afternoon. Her eyes searched the group
but Ashley was not among them. Then she listened and she heard his
voice. As she had hoped, he was still in the front driveway bidding good-by
to departing matrons and children.
Her heart in her throat, she went swiftly down the stairs. What if she
should meet Mr. Wilkes? What excuse could she give for prowling about
the house when all the other girls were getting their beauty naps? Well,
that had to be risked.
As she reached the bottom step, she heard the servants moving about in
the dining room under the butler’s orders, lifting out the table and the
chairs in preparation for the dancing. Across the wide hall was the open
door of the library and she sped into it noiselessly. She could wait there
until Ashley finished his adieux and then call to him when he came into
the house.
The library was in semidarkness, for the blinds had been drawn against
the sun. The dim room with towering walls completely filled with dark
books depressed her. It was not the place which she would have chosen for
a tryst such as she hoped this one would be. Large numbers of books always
depressed her, as did people who liked to read large numbers of books. That
is—all people except Ashley. The heavy furniture rose up at her in the
half-light, high-backed chairs with deep seats and wide arms, made for the
tall Wilkes men, squatty soft chairs of velvet with velvet hassocks before
them for the girls. Far across the long room before the hearth, the seven-
foot sofa, Ashley’s favorite seat, reared its high back, like some huge
sleeping animal.
She closed the door except for a crack and tried to make her heart beat
more slowly. She tried to remember just exactly what she had planned last
night to say to Ashley, but she couldn’t recall anything. Had she thought
up something and forgotten it—or had she only planned that Ashley
should say something to her? She couldn’t remember, and a sudden cold
fright fell upon her. If her heart would only stop pounding in her ears,
perhaps she could think of what to say. But the quick thudding only
increased as she heard him call a final farewell and walk into the front hall.
All she could think of was that she loved him—everything about him,
from the proud lift of his gold head to his slender dark boots, loved his
laughter even when it mystified her, loved his bewildering silences. Oh, if
only he would walk in on her now and take her in his arms, so she would
be spared the need of saying anything. He must love her—“Perhaps if I
prayed—” She squeezed her eyes tightly and began gabbling to herself “Hail
Mary, fullofgrace—”
“Why, Scarlett!” said Ashley’s voice, breaking in through the roaring in
her ears and throwing her into utter confusion. He stood in the hall
peering at her through the partly opened door, a quizzical smile on his face.
“Who are you hiding from—Charles or the Tarletons?”
She gulped. So he had noticed how the men had swarmed about her!
How unutterably dear he was standing there with his eyes twinkling, all
unaware of her excitement. She could not speak, but she put out a hand
and drew him into the room. He entered, puzzled but interested. There was
a tenseness about her, a glow in her eyes that he had never seen before, and
even in the dim light he could see the rosy flush on her cheeks.
Automatically he closed the door behind him and took her hand.
“What is it?” he said, almost in a whisper.
At the touch of his hand, she began to tremble. It was going to happen
now, just as she had dreamed it. A thousand incoherent thoughts shot
through her mind, and she could not catch a single one to mold into a
word. She could only shake and look up into his face. Why didn’t he speak?
“What is it?” he repeated. “A secret to tell me?”
Suddenly she found her tongue and just as suddenly all the years of
Ellen’s teachings fell away, and the forthright Irish blood of Gerald spoke
from his daughter’s lips.
“Yes—a secret. I love you.”
For an instant there was a silence so acute it seemed that neither of
them even breathed. Then the trembling fell away from her, as happiness
and pride surged through her. Why hadn’t she done this before? How much
simpler than all the ladylike maneuverings she had been taught. And then
her eyes sought his.
There was a look of consternation in them, of incredulity and something
more—what was it? Yes, Gerald had looked that way the day his pet hunter
had broken his leg and he had had to shoot him. Why did she have to
think of that now? Such a silly thought. And why did Ashley look so oddly
and say nothing? Then something like a well-trained mask came down over
his face and he smiled gallantly.
“Isn’t it enough that you’ve collected every other man’s heart here
today?” he said, with the old, teasing, caressing note in his voice. “Do you
want to make it unanimous? Well, you’ve always had my heart, you know.
You cut your teeth on it.”
Something was wrong—all wrong! This was not the way she had
planned it. Through the mad tearing of ideas round and round in her brain,
one was beginning to take form. Somehow—for some reason—Ashley was
acting as if he thought she was just flirting with him. But he knew
differently. She knew he did.
“Ashley—Ashley—tell me—you must—oh, don’t tease me now! Have I
your heart? Oh, my dear, I lo—”
His hand went across her lips, swiftly. The mask was gone.
“You must not say these things, Scarlett! You mustn’t. You don’t mean
them. You’ll hate yourself for saying them, and you’ll hate me for hearing
them!”
She jerked her head away. A hot swift current was running through her.
“I couldn’t ever hate you. I tell you I love you and I know you must care
about me because—” She stopped. Never before had she seen so much
misery in anyone’s face. “Ashley, do you care—you do, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said dully. “I care.”
If he had said he loathed her, she could not have been more frightened.
She plucked at his sleeve, speechless.
“Scarlett,” he said, “can’t we go away and forget that we have ever said
these things?”
“No,” she whispered. “I can’t. What do you mean? Don’t you want to—
to marry me?”
He replied, “I’m going to marry Melanie.”
Somehow she found that she was sitting on the low velvet chair and
Ashley, on the hassock at her feet, was holding both her hands in his, in a
hard grip. He was saying things—things that made no sense. Her mind was
quite blank, quite empty of all the thoughts that had surged through it only
a moment before, and his words made no more impression than rain on
glass. They fell on unhearing ears, words that were swift and tender and full
of pity, like a father speaking to a hurt child.
The sound of Melanie’s name caught in her consciousness and she
looked into his crystal-gray eyes. She saw in them the old remoteness that
had always baffled her—and a look of self-hatred.
“Father is to announce the engagement tonight. We are to be married
soon. I should have told you, but I thought you knew. I thought everyone
knew—had known for years. I never dreamed that you—You’ve so many
beaux. I thought Stuart—”
Life and feeling and comprehension were beginning to flow back into
her.
“But you just said you cared for me.”
His warm hands hurt hers.
“My dear, must you make me say things that will hurt you?”
Her silence pressed him on.
“How can I make you see these things, my dear? You who are so young
and unthinking that you do not know what marriage means.”
“I know I love you.”
“Love isn’t enough to make a successful marriage when two people are as
different as we are. You would want all of a man, Scarlett, his body, his
heart, his soul, his thoughts. And if you did not have them, you would be
miserable. And I couldn’t give you all of me. I couldn’t give all of me to
anyone. And I would not want all of your mind and your soul. And you
would be hurt, and then you would come to hate me—how bitterly! You
would hate the books I read and the music I loved, because they took me
away from you even for a moment. And I—perhaps I—”
“Do you love her?”
“She is like me, part of my blood, and we understand each other.
Scarlett! Scarlett! Can’t I make you see that a marriage can’t go on in any
sort of peace unless the two people are alike?”
Some one else had said that: “Like must marry like or there’ll be no
happiness.” Who was it? It seemed a million years since she had heard that,
but it still did not make sense.
“But you said you cared.”
“I shouldn’t have said it.”
Somewhere in her brain, a slow fire rose and rage began to blot out
everything else.
“Well, having been cad enough to say it—”
His face went white.
“I was a cad to say it, as I’m going to marry Melanie. I did you a wrong
and Melanie a greater one. I should not have said it, for I knew you
wouldn’t understand. How could I help caring for you—you who have all
the passion for life that I have not? You who can love and hate with a
violence impossible to me? Why you are as elemental as fire and wind and
wild things and I—”
She thought of Melanie and saw suddenly her quiet brown eyes with
their far-off look, her placid little hands in their black lace mitts, her gentle
silences. And then her rage broke, the same rage that drove Gerald to
murder and other Irish ancestors to misdeeds that cost them their necks.
There was nothing in her now of the well-bred Robillards who could bear
with white silence anything the world might cast.
“Why don’t you say it, you coward! You’re afraid to marry me! You’d
rather live with that stupid little fool who can’t open her mouth except to
say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ and raise a passel of mealy-mouthed brats just like her!
