Immeasurably and she would always chew coffee or gargle cologne to

disguise the smell. Why were people so silly about women drinking,

when men could and did get reeling drunk whenever they wanted to?

Sometimes when Frank lay snoring beside her and sleep would not

come, when she lay tossing, torn with fears of poverty, dreading

the Yankees, homesick for Tara and yearning for Ashley, she thought

she would go crazy were it not for the brandy bottle. And when the

pleasant familiar warmth stole through her veins, her troubles

began to fade. After three drinks, she could always say to

herself: "I'll think of these things tomorrow when I can stand

them better."

But there were some nights when even brandy would not still the

ache in her heart, the ache that was even stronger than fear of

losing the mills, the ache to see Tara again. Atlanta, with its

noises, its new buildings, its strange faces, its narrow streets

crowded with horses and wagons and bustling crowds sometimes seemed

to stifle her. She loved Atlanta but--oh, for the sweet peace and

country quiet of Tara, the red fields and the dark pines about it!

Oh, to be back at Tara, no matter how hard the life might be! And

to be near Ashley, just to see him, to hear him speak, to be

sustained by the knowledge of his love! Each letter from Melanie,

saying that they were well, each brief note from Will reporting

about the plowing, the planting, the growing of the cotton made her

long anew to be home again.

I'll go home in June. I can't do anything here after that. I'll

go home for a couple of months, she thought, and her heart would

rise. She did go home in June but not as she longed to go, for

early in that month came a brief message from Will that Gerald was

dead.

CHAPTER XXXIX

The train was very late and the long, deeply blue twilight of June

was settling over the countryside when Scarlett alighted in

Jonesboro. Yellow gleams of lamplight showed in the stores and

houses which remained in the village, but they were few. Here and

there were wide gaps between the buildings on the main street where

dwellings had been shelled or burned. Ruined houses with shell

holes in their roofs and half the walls torn away stared at her,

silent and dark. A few saddle horses and mule teams were hitched

outside the wooden awning of Bullard's store. The dusty red road

was empty and lifeless, and the only sounds in the village were a

few whoops and drunken laughs that floated on the still twilight

air from a saloon far down the street.

The depot had not been rebuilt since it was burned in the battle

and in its place was only a wooden shelter, with no sides to keep

out the weather. Scarlett walked under it and sat down on one of

the empty kegs that were evidently put there for seats. She peered

up and down the street for Will Benteen. Will should have been

here to meet her. He should have known she would take the first

train possible after receiving his laconic message that Gerald was

dead.

She had come so hurriedly that she had in her small carpetbag only

a nightgown and a tooth brush, not even a change of underwear. She

was uncomfortable in the tight black dress she had borrowed from

Mrs. Meade, for she had had no time to get mourning clothes for

herself. Mrs. Meade was thin now, and Scarlett's pregnancy being

advanced, the dress was doubly uncomfortable. Even in her sorrow

at Gerald's death, she did not forget the appearance she was making

and she looked down at her body with distaste. Her figure was

completely gone and her face and ankles were puffy. Heretofore she

had not cared very much how she looked but now that she would see

Ashley within the hour she cared greatly. Even in her heartbreak,

she shrank from the thought of facing him when she was carrying

another man's child. She loved him and he loved her, and this

unwanted child now seemed to her a proof of infidelity to that

love. But much as she disliked having him see her with the

slenderness gone from her waist and the lightness from her step, it

was something she could not escape now.

She patted her foot impatiently. Will should have met her. Of

course, she could go over to Bullard's and inquire after him or ask

someone there to drive her over to Tara, should she find he had

been unable to come. But she did not want to go to Bullard's. It

was Saturday night and probably half the men of the County would be

there. She did not want to display her condition in this poorly

fitting black dress which accentuated rather than hid her figure.

And she did not want to hear the kindly sympathy that would be

poured out about Gerald. She did not want sympathy. She was

afraid she would cry if anyone even mentioned his name to her. And

she wouldn't cry. She knew if she once began it would be like the

time she cried into the horse's mane, that dreadful night when

Atlanta fell and Rhett had left her on the dark road outside the

town, terrible tears that tore her heart and could not be stopped.

No, she wouldn't cry! She felt the lump in her throat rising

again, as it had done so often since the news came, but crying

wouldn't do any good. It would only confuse and weaken her. Why,

oh, why hadn't Will or Melanie or the girls written her that Gerald

was ailing? She would have taken the first train to Tara to care

for him, brought a doctor from Atlanta if necessary. The fools--

all of them! Couldn't they manage anything without her? She

couldn't be in two places at once and the good Lord knew she was

doing her best for them all in Atlanta.

She twisted about on the keg, becoming nervous and fidgety as Will

still did not come. Where was he? Then she heard the scrunching

of cinders on the railroad tracks behind her and, twisting her

body, she saw Alex Fontaine crossing the tracks toward a wagon, a

sack of oats on his shoulder.

"Good Lord! Isn't that you, Scarlett?" he cried, dropping the sack

and running to take her hand, pleasure written all over his bitter,

swarthy little face. "I'm so glad to see you. I saw Will over at

the blacksmith's shop, getting the horse shod. The train was late

and he thought he'd have time. Shall I run fetch him?"

"Yes, please, Alex," she said, smiling in spite of her sorrow. It

was good to see a County face again.

"Oh--er--Scarlett," he began awkwardly, still holding her hand,

"I'm mighty sorry about your father."

"Thank you," she replied, wishing he had not said it. His words

brought up Gerald's florid face and bellowing voice so clearly.

"If it's any comfort to you, Scarlett, we're mighty proud of him

around here," Alex continued, dropping her hand. "He--well, we

figure he died like a soldier and in a soldier's cause."

Now what did he mean by that, she thought confusedly. A soldier?

Had someone shot him? Had he gotten into a fight with the

Scallawags as Tony had? But she mustn't hear more. She would cry