Gone with the Wind (33 page)

“Oh, well, I don't know—not happiness or love, anyway.”

“Generally it can. And when it can't, it can buy some of the most remarkable substitutes.”

“And have you so much money, Captain Butler?”

“What an ill-bred question, Mrs. Hamilton. I'm surprised. But, yes. For a young man cut off without a shilling in early youth, I've done very well. And I'm sure I'll clean up a million on the blockade.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes! What most people don't seem to realize is that there is just as much money to be made out of the wreckage of a civilization as from the upbuilding of one.”

“And what does all that mean?”

“Your family and my family and everyone here tonight made their money out of changing a wilderness into a civilization. That's empire building. There's good money in empire building. But, there's more in empire wrecking.”

“What empire are you talking about?”

“This empire we're living in—the South—the Confederacy—the Cotton Kingdom—it's breaking up right under our feet. Only most fools won't see it and take advantage of the situation created by the collapse. I'm making my fortune out of the wreckage.”

“Then you really think we're going to get licked?”

“Yes. Why be an ostrich?”

“Oh, dear, it bores me to talk about such like. Don't you ever say pretty things, Captain Butler?”

“Would it please you if I said your eyes were twin goldfish bowls filled to the brim with the clearest green water and that when the fish swim to the top, as they are doing now, you are devilishly charming?”

“Oh, I don't like that…. Isn't the music gorgeous? Oh, I could waltz forever! I didn't know I had missed it so!”

“You are the most beautiful dancer I've ever held in my arms.”

“Captain Butler, you must not hold me so tightly. Everybody is looking.”

“If no one were looking, would you care?”

“Captain Butler, you forget yourself.”

“Not for a minute. How could I, with you in my arms?… What is that tune? Isn't it new?”

“Yes. Isn't it divine? It's something we captured from the Yankees.”

“What's the name of it?”

“‘When This Cruel War Is Over.'”

“What are the words? Sing them to me.”

“Dearest one, do you remember

When we last did meet?

When you told me how you loved me,

Kneeling at my feet?

Oh, how proud you stood before me

In your suit of gray,

When you vowed from me and country

Ne'er to go astray.

Weeping sad and lonely,

Sighs and tears how vain!

When this cruel war is over

Pray that we meet again!

“Of course, it was ‘suit of blue' but we changed it to ‘gray.'… Oh, you waltz so well, Captain Butler. Most big men don't, you know. And to think it will be years and years before I'll dance again.”

“It will only be a few minutes. I'm going to bid you in for the next reel—and the next and the next.”

“Oh, no, I couldn't! You mustn't! My reputation will be ruined.”

“It's in shreds already, so what does another dance matter? Maybe I'll give the other boys a chance after I've had five or six, but I must have the last one.”

“Oh, all right. I know I'm crazy but I don't care. I don't care a bit what anybody says. I'm so tired of sitting at home. I'm going to dance and dance—”

“And not wear black? I loathe funeral crêpe.”

“Oh, I couldn't take off mourning—Captain Butler, you must not hold me so tightly. I'll be mad at you if you do.”

“And you look gorgeous when you are mad. I'll squeeze you again—there—just to see if you will really get mad. You have no idea how charming you were that day at Twelve Oaks when you were mad and throwing things.”

“Oh, please—won't you forget that?”

“No, it is one of my most priceless memories—a delicately nurtured Southern belle with her Irish up—You are very Irish, you know.”

“Oh, dear, there's the end of the music and there's
Aunt Pittypat coming out of the back room. I know Mrs. Merriwether must have told her. Oh, for goodness' sakes, let's walk over and look out the window. I don't want her to catch me now. Her eyes are as big as saucers.”

O
VER THE WAFFLES NEXT MORNING
, Pittypat was lachrymose, Melanie was silent and Scarlett defiant.

“I don't care if they do talk. I'll bet I made more money for the hospital than any girl there—more than all the messy old stuff we sold, too.”

“Oh, dear, what does the money matter?” wailed Pittypat wringing her hands. “I just couldn't believe my eyes, and poor Charlie hardly dead a year…. And that awful Captain Butler, making you so conspicuous, and he's a terrible, terrible person, Scarlett. Mrs. Whiting's cousin, Mrs. Coleman, whose husband came from Charleston, told me about him. He's the black sheep of a lovely family—oh, how could any of the Butlers ever turn out anything like him? He isn't received in Charleston and he has the fastest reputation and there was something about a girl—something so bad Mrs. Coleman didn't even know what it was—”

“Oh, I can't believe he's that bad,” said Melly gently. “He seemed a perfect gentleman and when you think how brave he's been, running the blockade—”

“He isn't brave,” said Scarlett perversely, pouring half a pitcher of syrup over her waffles. “He just does it for money. He told me so. He doesn't care anything about the Confederacy and he says we're going to get licked. But he dances divinely.”

Her audience was speechless with horror.

“I'm tired of sitting at home and I'm not going to do it any longer. If they all talked about me last night, then my
reputation is already gone and it won't matter what else they say.”

It did not occur to her that the idea was Rhett Butler's. It came so patly and fitted so well with what she was thinking.

“Oh! What will your mother say when she hears? What will she think of me?”

A cold qualm of guilt assailed Scarlett at the thought of Ellen's consternation, should she ever learn of her daughter's scandalous conduct. But she took heart at the thought of the twenty-five miles between Atlanta and Tara. Miss Pitty certainly wouldn't tell Ellen. It would put her in such a bad light as a chaperon. And if Pitty didn't tattle, she was safe.

“I think—” said Pitty, “yes, I think I'd better write Henry a letter about it—much as I hate it—but he's our only male relative, and make him go speak reprovingly to Captain Butler—Oh, dear, if Charlie were only alive—You must never, never speak to that man again, Scarlett.”

Melanie had been sitting quietly, her hands in her lap, her waffles cooling on her plate. She arose and, coming behind Scarlett, put her arms about her neck.

“Darling,” she said, “don't get upset. I understand and it was a brave thing you did last night and it's going to help the hospital a lot. And if anybody dares say one little word about you, I'll tend to them…. Aunt Pitty, don't cry. It has been hard on Scarlett, not going anywhere. She's just a baby.” Her fingers played in Scarlett's black hair. “And maybe we'd all be better off if we went out occasionally to parties. Maybe we've been very selfish, staying here with our grief. War times aren't like other times. When I think of all the soldiers in town who
are far from home and haven't any friends to call on at night—and the ones in the hospital who are well enough to be out of bed and not well enough to go back in the army—Why, we've been selfish. We ought to have three convalescents in our house this minute, like everybody else, and some of the soldiers out to dinner every Sunday. There, Scarlett, don't you fret. People won't talk when they understand. We know you loved Charlie.”

Scarlett was far from fretting and Melanie's soft hands in her hair were irritating. She wanted to jerk her head away and say “Oh, fiddle-dee-dee!” for the warming memory was still on her of how the Home Guard and the militia and the soldiers from the hospital had fought for her dances last night. Of all the people in the world, she didn't want Melly for a defender. She could defend herself, thank you, and if the old cats wanted to squall—well, she could get along without the old cats. There were too many nice officers in the world for her to bother about what old women said.

Pittypat was dabbing at her eyes under Melanie's soothing words when Prissy entered with a bulky letter.

“Fer you, Miss Melly. A lil nigger boy brung it.”

“For me?” said Melly, wondering, as she ripped open the envelope.

Scarlett was making headway with her waffles and so noticed nothing until she heard a burst of tears from Melly and, looking up, saw Aunt Pittypat's hand go to her heart.

“Ashley's dead!” screamed Pittypat, throwing her head back and letting her arms go limp.

“Oh, my god!” cried Scarlett, her blood turning to ice water.

“No! No!” cried Melanie. “Quick! Her smelling salts,
Scarlett! There, there, honey, do you feel better? Breathe deep. No, it's not Ashley. I'm so sorry I scared you. I was crying because I'm so happy,” and suddenly she opened her clenched palm and pressed some object that was in it to her lips. “I'm so happy,” and burst into tears again.

Scarlett caught a fleeting glimpse and saw that it was a broad gold ring.

“Read it,” said Melly, pointing to the letter on the floor. “Oh, how sweet, how kind, he is!”

Scarlett, bewildered, picked up the single sheet and saw written in a black, bold hand: “The Confederacy may need the lifeblood of its men but not yet does it demand the heart's blood of its women. Accept, dear Madam, this token of my reverence for your courage and do not think that your sacrifice has been in vain, for this ring has been redeemed at ten times its value. Captain Rhett Butler.”

Melanie slipped the ring on her finger and looked at it lovingly.

“I told you he was a gentleman, didn't I?” she said, turning to Pittypat, her smile bright through the teardrops on her face. “No one but a gentleman of refinement and thoughtfulness would ever have thought how it broke my heart to—I'll send my gold chain instead. Aunt Pittypat, you must write him a note and invite him to Sunday dinner so I can thank him.”

In the excitement, neither of the others seemed to have thought that Captain Butler had not returned Scarlett's ring, too. But she thought of it, annoyed. And she knew it had not been Captain Butler's refinement that had prompted so gallant a gesture. It was that he intended to be asked into Pittypat's house and knew unerringly how to get the invitation.

*     *     *

“I was greatly disturbed to hear of your recent conduct,” ran Ellen's letter and Scarlett, who was reading it at the table, scowled. Bad news certainly traveled swiftly. She had often heard in Charleston and Savannah that Atlanta people gossiped more and meddled in other people's business more than any other people in the South, and now she believed it. The bazaar had taken place Monday night and today was only Thursday. Which of the old cats had taken it upon herself to write Ellen? For a moment she suspected Pittypat but immediately abandoned that thought. Poor Pittypat had been quaking in her number-three shoes for fear of being blamed for Scarlett's forward conduct and would be the last to notify Ellen of her own inadequate chaperonage. Probably it was Mrs. Merriwether.

“It is difficult for me to believe that you could so forget yourself and your rearing. I will pass over the impropriety of your appearing publicly while in mourning, realizing your warm desire to be of assistance to the hospital. But to dance, and with such a man as Captain Butler! I have heard much of him (as who has not?) and Pauline wrote me only last week that he is a man of bad repute and not even received by his own family in Charleston, except of course by his heartbroken mother. He is a thoroughly bad character who would take advantage of your youth and innocence to make you conspicuous and publicly disgrace you and your family. How could Miss Pittypat have so neglected her duty to you?”

Scarlett looked across the table at her aunt. The old lady had recognized Ellen's handwriting and her fat little mouth was pursed in a frightened way, like a baby who fears a scolding and hopes to ward it off by tears.

“I am heartbroken to think that you could so soon forget your rearing. I have thought of calling you home immediately but will leave that to your father's discretion. He will be in Atlanta Friday to speak with Captain Butler and to escort you home. I fear he will be severe with you despite my pleadings. I hope and pray it was only youth and thoughtlessness that prompted such forward conduct. No one can wish to serve our Cause more than I, and I wish my daughters to feel the same way, but to disgrace—”

There was more in the same vein but Scarlett did not finish it. For once, she was thoroughly frightened. She did not feel reckless and defiant now. She felt as young and guilty as when she was ten and had thrown a buttered biscuit at Suellen at the table. To think of her gentle mother reproving her so harshly and her father coming to town to talk to Captain Butler. The real seriousness of the matter grew on her. Gerald was going to be severe. This was one time when she knew she couldn't wiggle out of her punishment by sitting on his knee and being sweet and pert.

“Not—not bad news?” quavered Pittypat.

“Pa is coming tomorrow and he's going to land on me like a duck on a June bug,” answered Scarlett dolorously.

“Prissy, find my salts,” fluttered Pittypat, pushing back her chair from her half-eaten meal. “I—I feel faint.”

“Dey's in yo' skirt pocket,” said Prissy, who had been hovering behind Scarlett, enjoying the sensational drama. Mist' Gerald in a temper was always exciting, providing his temper was not directed at her kinky head. Pitty fumbled at her skirt and held the vial to her nose.