Invasion when they could have fled or joined the troops for lives

of leisure. But they had stayed. She thought of Dilcey toiling in

the cotton fields beside her, of Pork risking his life in

neighboring hen houses that the family might eat, of Mammy coming

to Atlanta with her to keep her from doing wrong. She thought of

the servants of her neighbors who had stood loyally beside their

white owners, protecting their mistresses while the men were at the

front, refugeeing with them through the terrors of the war, nursing

the wounded, burying the dead, comforting the bereaved, working,

begging, stealing to keep food on the tables. And even now, with

the Freedmen's Bureau promising all manner of wonders, they still

stuck with their white folks and worked much harder than they ever

worked in slave times. But the Yankees didn't understand these

things and would never understand them.

"Yet they set you free," she said aloud.

"No, Ma'm! Dey din' sot me free. Ah wouldn' let no sech trash sot

me free," said Peter indignantly. "Ah still b'longs ter Miss Pitty

an' w'en Ah dies she gwine lay me in de Hamilton buhyin' groun'

whar Ah b'longs. . . . Mah Miss gwine ter be in a state w'en Ah

tells her 'bout how you let dem Yankee women 'sult me."

"I did no such thing!" cried Scarlett, startled.

"You did so, Miss Scarlett," said Peter, pushing out his lip even

farther. "De pint is, needer you nor me had no bizness bein' wid

Yankees, so dey could 'sult me. Ef you hadn't talked wid dem, dey

wouldn' had no chance ter treat me lak a mule or a Affikun. An'

you din' tek up fer me, needer."

"I did, too!" said Scarlett, stung by the criticism. "Didn't I

tell them you were one of the family?"

"Dat ain' tekkin' up. Dat's jes' a fac'," said Peter. "Miss

Scarlett, you ain' got no bizness havin' no truck wid Yankees.

Ain' no other ladies doin' it. You wouldn' ketch Miss Pitty wipin'

her lil shoes on sech trash. An' she ain' gwine lake it w'en she

hear 'bout whut dey said 'bout me."

Peter's criticism hurt worse than anything Frank or Aunt Pitty or

the neighbors had said and it so annoyed her she longed to shake

the old darky until his toothless gums clapped together. What

Peter said was true but she hated to hear it from a negro and a

family negro, too. Not to stand high in the opinion of one's

servants was as humiliating a thing as could happen to a

Southerner.

"A ole pet!" Peter grumbled. "Ah specs Miss Pitty ain't gwine want

me ter drive you roun' no mo' after dat. No, Ma'm!"

"Aunt Pitty will want you to drive me as usual," she said sternly,

"so let's hear no more about it."

"Ah'll git a mizry in mak back," warned Peter darkly. "Mah back

huttin' me so bad dis minute Ah kain sceercely set up. Mah Miss

ain' gwine want me ter do no drivin' w'en Ah got a mizry. . . .

Miss Scarlett, it ain' gwine do you no good ter stan' high wid de

Yankees an' de w'ite trash, ef yo' own folks doan 'prove of you."

That was as accurate a summing up of the situation as could be made

and Scarlett relapsed into infuriated silence. Yes, the conquerors

did approve of her and her family and her neighbors did not. She

knew all the things the town was saying about her. And now even

Peter disapproved of her to the point of not caring to be seen in

public with her. That was the last straw.

Heretofore she had been careless of public opinion, careless and a

little contemptuous. But Peter's words caused fierce resentment to

burn in her breast, drove her to a defensive position, made her

suddenly dislike her neighbors as much as she disliked the Yankees.

"Why should they care what I do?" she thought. "They must think I

enjoy associating with Yankees and working like a field hand.

They're just making a hard job harder for me. But I don't care

what they think. I won't let myself care. I can't afford to care

now. But some day--some day--"

Oh some day! When there was security in her world again, then she

would sit back and fold her hands and be a great lady as Ellen had

been. She would be helpless and sheltered, as a lady should be,

and then everyone would approve of her. Oh, how grand she would be

when she had money again! Then she could permit herself to be kind

and gentle, as Ellen had been, and thoughtful of other people and

of the proprieties, to. She would not be driven by fears, day and

night, and life would be a placid, unhurried affair. She would

have time to play with her children and listen to their lessons.

There would be long warm afternoons when ladies would call and,

amid the rustlings of taffeta petticoats and the rhythmic harsh

cracklings of palmetto fans, she would serve tea and delicious

sandwiches and cakes and leisurely gossip the hours away. And she

would be so kind to those who were suffering misfortune, take

baskets to the poor and soup and jelly to the sick and "air" those

less fortunate in her fine carriage. She would be a lady in the

true Southern manner, as her mother had been. And then, everyone

would love her as they had loved Ellen and they would say how

unselfish she was and call her "Lady Bountiful."

Her pleasure in these thoughts of the future was undimmed by any

realization that she had no real desire to be unselfish or

charitable or kind. All she wanted was the reputation for

possessing these qualities. But the meshes of her brain were too

wide, too coarse, to filter such small differences. It was enough

that some day, when she had money, everyone would approve of her.

Some day! But not now. Not now, in spite of what anyone might say

of her. Now, there was no time to be a great lady.

Peter was as good as his word. Aunt Pitty did get into a state,

and Peter's misery developed overnight to such proportions that he

never drove the buggy again. Thereafter Scarlett drove alone and

the calluses which had begun to leave her palms came back again.

So the spring months went by, the cool rains of April passing into

the warm balm of green May weather. The weeks were packed with

work and worry and the handicaps of increasing pregnancy, with old

friends growing cooler and her family increasingly more kind, more

maddeningly solicitous and more completely blind to what was

driving her. During those days of anxiety and struggle there was

only one dependable, understanding person in her world, and that

person was Rhett Butler. It was odd that he of all people should

appear in this light, for he was as unstable as quicksilver and as

perverse as a demon fresh from the pit. But he gave her sympathy,

something she had never had from anyone and never expected from

him.

Frequently he was out of town on those mysterious trips to New

Orleans which he never explained but which she felt sure, in a

faintly jealous way, were connected with a woman--or women. But

after Uncle Peter's refusal to drive her, he remained in Atlanta

for longer and longer intervals.

While in town, he spent most of his time gambling in the rooms

above the Girl of the Period Saloon, or in Belle Watling's bar

hobnobbing with the wealthier of the Yankees and Carpetbaggers in

money-making schemes which made the townspeople detest him even

more than his cronies. He did not call at the house now, probably