44

 

 

 

GONE WITH THE WIND

 

 

This story is set during the American Civil War, and therefore contains characters and their language of the period, and other outdated cultural depictions. If you feel you are likely to be offended by these, do not read any further.

 

PART 44

 

 

CHAPTER XLIV

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Did you like it up North, Sam?"

 

Sam scratched his woolly head.

 

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

 

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

 

"Pa and Mother are both dead, Sam."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"A darky?"

 

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

 

"How did it happen?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Ah ain' got no hat."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"What ails him?"

 

"Laziness, mostly."

 

"I'll go see him."

 

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

 

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

 

"Have you been whipping these men?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"No'm."

 

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

 

"No'm."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

She stormed past him to the doorway.

 

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

 

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

 

"When did you last have ham?"

 

The man looked down at the ground.

 

"Speak up."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"You mean you are quitting!"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

---

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 To be continued

 

Return to Good in Parts Contents page

 

 

43

 

 

 

GONE WITH THE WIND

 

 

This story is set during the American Civil War, and therefore contains characters and their language of the period, and other outdated cultural depictions. If you feel you are likely to be offended by these, do not read any further.

 

PART 43

 

 

CHAPTER XLIII

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He threw back his head and laughed.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Will you?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"What do they say?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Would it matter much to you?"

 

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

 

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

 

She looked up unwillingly, her blush deepening.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Yes," he said shortly, unwillingly.

 

"Well, I never! Is he handsome?"

 

"Too handsome for his own good."

 

"Is he a nice little boy?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Oh, I'm sorry."

 

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

 

"Rhett, what a dreadful thing to say!"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Why not?"

 

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

 

"Why?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"I don't know what you mean."

 

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

 

"Indeed?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"I made it selling lumber, of course."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Pity?"

 

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

 

"Well, I'm not."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"I don't see why!"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He laughed.

 

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

 

"I have not!"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"You do?"

 

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

 

"There are other banks--"

 

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

 

"I'll go to them with pleasure."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"What else could he have done?"

 

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

 

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

 

"Why, Ashley said--"

 

"Yes?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He laughed silently, his shoulders shaking.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He rose suddenly and picked up his hat.

 

"You are going?"

 

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

 

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

 

"I suppose Frank is bursting with pride?"

 

"Oh, of course."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"What do you mean?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He went down the steps still laughing.

 

 To be continued

 

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