It was a glorious spree for the gang which had Georgia by the

throat. There was an orgy of grabbing and over all there was a

cold cynicism about open theft in high places that was chilling to

contemplate. Protests and efforts to resist accomplished nothing,

for the state government was being upheld and supported by the

power of the United States Army.

Atlanta cursed the name of Bullock and his Scallawags and

Republicans and they cursed the name of anyone connected with them.

And Rhett was connected with them. He had been in with them, so

everyone said, in all their schemes. But now, he turned against

the stream in which he had drifted so short a while before, and

began swimming arduously back against the current.

He went about his campaign slowly, subtly, not arousing the

suspicions of Atlanta by the spectacle of a leopard trying to

change his spots overnight. He avoided his dubious cronies and was

seen no more in the company of Yankee officers, Scallawags and

Republicans. He attended Democratic rallies and he ostentatiously

voted the Democratic ticket. He gave up high-stake card games and

stayed comparatively sober. If he went to Belle Watling's house at

all, he went by night and by stealth as did more respectable

townsmen, instead of leaving his horse hitched in front of her door

in the afternoons as an advertisement of his presence within.

And the congregation of the Episcopal Church almost fell out of

their pews when he tiptoed in, late for services, with Wade's hand

held in his. The congregation was as much stunned by Wade's

appearance as by Rhett's, for the little boy was supposed to be a

Catholic. At least, Scarlett was one. Or she was supposed to be

one. But she had not put foot in the church in years, for religion

had gone from her as many of Ellen's other teachings had gone.

Everyone thought she had neglected her boy's religious education

and thought more of Rhett for trying to rectify the matter, even if

he did take the boy to the Episcopal Church instead of the

Catholic.

Rhett could be grave of manner and charming when he chose to

restrain his tongue and keep his black eyes from dancing maliciously.

It had been years since he had chosen to do this but he did it now,

putting on gravity and charm, even as he put on waistcoats of more

sober hues. It was not difficult to gain a foothold of friendliness

with the men who owed their necks to him. They would have showed

their appreciation long ago, had Rhett not acted as if their

appreciation were a matter of small moment. Now, Hugh Elsing, Rene,

the Simmons boys, Andy Bonnell and the others found him pleasant,

diffident about putting himself forward and embarrassed when they

spoke of the obligation they owed him.

"It was nothing," he would protest. "In my place you'd have all

done the same thing."

He subscribed handsomely to the fund for the repairs of the

Episcopal Church and he gave a large, but not vulgarly large,

contribution to the Association for the Beautification of the

Graves of Our Glorious Dead. He sought out Mrs. Elsing to make

this donation and embarrassedly begged that she keep his gift a

secret, knowing very well that this would spur her to spreading the

news. Mrs. Elsing hated to take his money--"speculator money"--but

the Association needed money badly.

"I don't see why you of all people should be subscribing," she said

acidly.

When Rhett told her with the proper sober mien that he was moved to

contribute by the memories of former comrades in arms, braver than

he but less fortunate, who now lay in unmarked graves, Mrs.

Elsing's aristocratic jaw dropped. Dolly Merriwether had told her

Scarlett had said Captain Butler was in the army but, of course,

she hadn't believed it. Nobody had believed it.

"You in the army? What was your company--your regiment?"

Rhett gave them.

"Oh, the artillery! Everyone I knew was either in the cavalry or

the infantry. Then, that explains--" She broke off, disconcerted,

expecting to see his eyes snap with malice. But he only looked

down and toyed with his watch chain.

"I would have liked the infantry," he said, passing completely over

her insinuation, "but when they found that I was a West Pointer--

though I did not graduate, Mrs. Elsing, due to a boyish prank--they

put me in the artillery, the regular artillery, not the militia.

They needed men with specialized knowledge in that last campaign.

You know how heavy the losses had been, so many artillerymen

killed. It was pretty lonely in the artillery. I didn't see a

soul I knew. I don't believe I saw a single man from Atlanta

during my whole service."

"Well!" said Mrs. Elsing, confused. If he had been in the army

then she was wrong. She had made many sharp remarks about his

cowardice and the memory of them made her feel guilty. "Well! And

why haven't you ever told anybody about your service? You act as

though you were ashamed of it."

Rhett looked her squarely in the eyes, his face blank.

"Mrs. Elsing," he said earnestly, "believe me when I say that I am

prouder of my services to the Confederacy than of anything I have

ever done or will do. I feel--I feel--"

"Well, why did you keep it hidden?"

"I was ashamed to speak of it, in the light of--of some of my

former actions."

Mrs. Elsing reported the contribution and the conversation in

detail to Mrs. Merriwether.

"And, Dolly, I give you my word that when he said that about being

ashamed, tears came into his eyes! Yes, tears! I nearly cried

myself."

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried Mrs. Merriwether in disbelief. "I don't

believe tears came into his eyes any more than I believe he was in

the army. And I can find out mighty quick. If he was in that

artillery outfit, I can get at the truth, for Colonel Carleton who

commanded it married the daughter of one of my grandfather's

sisters and I'll write him."

She wrote Colonel Carlton and to her consternation received a reply

praising Rhett's services in no uncertain terms. A born

artilleryman, a brave soldier and an uncomplaining gentleman, a

modest man who wouldn't even take a commission when it was offered

him.

"Well!" said Mrs. Merriwether showing the letter to Mrs. Elsing.

"You can knock me down with a feather! Maybe we did misjudge the

scamp about not being a soldier. Maybe we should have believed

what Scarlett and Melanie said about him enlisting the day the town

fell. But, just the same, he's a Scallawag and a rascal and I

don't like him!"

"Somehow," said Mrs. Elsing uncertainly, "somehow, I don't think

he's so bad. A man who fought for the Confederacy can't be all

bad. It's Scarlett who is the bad one. Do you know, Dolly, I

really believe that he--well, he's ashamed of Scarlett but is too

much of a gentleman to let on."

"Ashamed! Pooh! They're both cut out of the same piece of cloth.

Where did you ever get such a silly notion?"

"It isn't silly," said Mrs. Elsing indignantly. "Yesterday, in the

pouring rain, he had those three children, even the baby, mind you,

out in his carriage riding them up and down Peachtree Street and he

gave me a lift home. And when I said: 'Captain Butler, have you

lost your mind keeping these children out in the damp? Why don't

you take them home?' And he didn't say a word but just looked

embarrassed. But Mammy spoke up and said: 'De house full of w'ite

trash an' it healthier fer de chillun in de rain dan at home!'"

"What did he say?"

"What could he say? He just scowled at Mammy and passed it over.

You know Scarlett was giving a big whist party yesterday afternoon

with all those common ordinary women there. I guess he didn't want

them kissing his baby."

"Well!" said Mrs. Merriwether, wavering but still obstinate. But

the next week she, too, capitulated.

Rhett now had a desk in the bank. What he did at this desk the

bewildered officials of the bank did not know, but he owned too

large a block of the stock for them to protest his presence there.

After a while they forgot that they had objected to him for he was

quiet and well mannered and actually knew something about banking

and investments. At any rate he sat at his desk all day, giving

every appearance of industry, for he wished to be on equal terms

with his respectable fellow townsmen who worked and worked hard.

Mrs. Merriwether, wishing to expand her growing bakery, had tried

to borrow two thousand dollars from the bank with her house as

security. She had been refused because there were already two

mortgages on the house. The stout old lady was storming out of the

bank when Rhett stopped her, learned the trouble and said,

worriedly: "But there must be some mistake, Mrs. Merriwether.

Some dreadful mistake. You of all people shouldn't have to bother

about collateral. Why, I'd lend you money just on your word! Any

lady who could build up the business you've built up is the best

risk in the world. The bank wants to lend money to people like

you. Now, do sit down right here in my chair and I will attend to

it for you."

When he came back he was smiling blandly, saying that there had

been a mistake, just as he had thought. The two thousand dollars

was right there waiting for her whenever she cared to draw against

it. Now, about her house--would she just sign right here?

Mrs. Merriwether, torn with indignation and insult, furious that

she had to take this favor from a man she disliked and distrusted,

was hardly gracious in her thanks.

But he failed to notice it. As he escorted her to the door, he

said: "Mrs. Merriwether, I have always had a great regard for your

knowledge and I wonder if you could tell me something?"

The plumes on her bonnet barely moved as she nodded.

"What did you do when your Maybelle was little and she sucked her

thumb?"

"What?"

"My Bonnie sucks her thumb. I can't make her stop it."

"You should make her stop it," said Mrs. Merriwether vigorously.

"It will ruin the shape of her mouth."

"I know! I know! And she has a beautiful mouth. But I don't know

what to do."

"Well, Scarlett ought to know," said Mrs. Merriwether shortly.

"She's had two other children."

Rhett looked down at his shoes and sighed.

"I've tried putting soap under her finger nails," he said, passing

over her remark about Scarlett.

"Soap! Bah! Soap is no good at all. I put quinine on Maybelle's

thumb and let me tell you, Captain Butler, she stopped sucking that

thumb mighty quick."

"Quinine! I would never have thought of it! I can't thank you

enough, Mrs. Merriwether. It was worrying me."

He gave her a smile, so pleasant, so grateful that Mrs. Merriwether

stood uncertainly for a moment. But as she told him good-by she

was smiling too. She hated to admit to Mrs. Elsing that she had

misjudged the man but she was an honest person and she said there

had to be something good about a man who loved his child. What a

pity Scarlett took no interest in so pretty a creature as Bonnie!

There was something pathetic about a man trying to raise a little

girl all by himself! Rhett knew very well the pathos of the

spectacle, and if it blackened Scarlett's reputation he did not

care.

From the time the child could walk he took her about with him

constantly, in the carriage or in front of his saddle. When he

came home from the bank in the afternoon, he took her walking down

Peachtree Street, holding her hand, slowing his long strides to her

toddling steps, patiently answering her thousand questions. People

were always in their front yards or on their porches at sunset and,

as Bonnie was such a friendly, pretty child, with her tangle of

black curls and her bright blue eyes, few could resist talking to

her. Rhett never presumed on these conversations but stood by,

exuding fatherly pride and gratification at the notice taken of his

daughter.

Atlanta had a long memory and was suspicious and slow to change.

Times were hard and feeling was bitter against anyone who had had

anything to do with Bullock and his crowd. But Bonnie had the

combined charm of Scarlett and Rhett at their best and she was the

small opening wedge Rhett drove into the wall of Atlanta's

coldness.

Bonnie grew rapidly and every day it became more evident that

Gerald O'Hara had been her grandfather. She had short sturdy legs

and wide eyes of Irish blue and a small square jaw that went with a

determination to have her own way. She had Gerald's sudden temper

to which she gave vent in screaming tantrums that were forgotten as

soon as her wishes were gratified. And as long as her father was

near her, they were always gratified hastily. He spoiled her

despite all the efforts of Mammy and Scarlett, for in all things

she pleased him, except one. And that was her fear of the dark.

Until she was two years old she went to sleep readily in the

nursery she shared with Wade and Ella. Then, for no apparent

reason, she began to sob whenever Mammy waddled out of the room,

carrying the lamp. From this she progressed to wakening in the

late night hours, screaming with terror, frightening the other two

children and alarming the house. Once Dr. Meade had to be called

and Rhett was short with him when he diagnosed only bad dreams.

All anyone could get from her was one word, "Dark."

Scarlett was inclined to be irritated with the child and favored a

spanking. She would not humor her by leaving a lamp burning in the

nursery, for then Wade and Ella would be unable to sleep. Rhett,

worried but gentle, attempting to extract further information from

his daughter, said coldly that if any spanking were done, he would

do it personally and to Scarlett.

The upshot of the situation was that Bonnie was removed from the

nursery to the room Rhett now occupied alone. Her small bed was

placed beside his large one and a shaded lamp burned on the table

all night long. The town buzzed when this story got about.

Somehow, there was something indelicate about a girl child sleeping

in her father's room, even though the girl was only two years old.

Scarlett suffered from this gossip in two ways. First, it proved

indubitably that she and her husband occupied separate rooms, in

itself a shocking enough state of affairs. Second, everyone

thought that if the child was afraid to sleep alone, her place was

with her mother. And Scarlett did not feel equal to explaining

that she could not sleep in a lighted room nor would Rhett permit

the child to sleep with her.

"You'd never wake up unless she screamed and then you'd probably

slap her," he said shortly.

Scarlett was annoyed at the weight he attached to Bonnie's night

terrors but she thought she could eventually remedy the state of

affairs and transfer the child back to the nursery. All children

were afraid of the dark and the only cure was firmness. Rhett was

just being perverse in the matter, making her appear a poor mother,

just to pay her back for banishing him from her room.

He had never put foot in her room or even rattled the door knob

since the night she told him she did not want any more children.

Thereafter and until he began staying at home on account of

Bonnie's fears, he had been absent from the supper table more often

than he had been present. Sometimes he had stayed out all night

and Scarlett, lying awake behind her locked door, hearing the clock

count off the early morning hours, wondered where he was. She

remembered: "There are other beds, my dear!" Though the thought

made her writhe, there was nothing she could do about it. There

was nothing she could say that would not precipitate a scene in

which he would be sure to remark upon her locked door and the

probable connection Ashley had with it. Yes, his foolishness about

Bonnie sleeping in a lighted room--in his lighted room--was just a

mean way of paying her back.

She did not realize the importance he attached to Bonnie's

foolishness nor the completeness of his devotion to the child until

one dreadful night. The family never forgot that night.

That day Rhett had met an ex-blockade runner and they had had much

to say to each other. Where they had gone to talk and drink,

Scarlett did not know but she suspected, of course, Belle Watling's

house. He did not come home in the afternoon to take Bonnie

walking nor did he come home to supper. Bonnie, who had watched

from the window impatiently all afternoon, anxious to display a

mangled collection of beetles and roaches to her father, had

finally been put to bed by Lou, amid wails and protests.

Either Lou had forgotten to light the lamp or it had burned out.

No one ever knew exactly what happened but when Rhett finally came

home, somewhat the worse for drink, the house was in an uproar and

Bonnie's screams reached him even in the stables. She had waked in

darkness and called for him and he had not been there. All the

nameless horrors that peopled her small imagination clutched her.

All the soothing and bright lights brought by Scarlett and the

servants could not quiet her and Rhett, coming up the stairs three

at a jump, looked like a man who has seen Death.

When he finally had her in his arms and from her sobbing gasps had

recognized only one word, "Dark," he turned on Scarlett and the

negroes in fury.

"Who put out the light? Who left her alone in the dark? Prissy,

I'll skin you for this, you--"

"Gawdlmighty, Mist' Rhett! 'Twarn't me! 'Twuz Lou!"

"Fo' Gawd, Mist' Rhett, Ah--"

"Shut up. You know my orders. By God, I'll--get out. Don't come

back. Scarlett, give her some money and see that she's gone before

I come down stairs. Now, everybody get out, everybody!"

The negroes fled, the luckless Lou wailing into her apron. But

Scarlett remained. It was hard to see her favorite child quieting

in Rhett's arms when she had screamed so pitifully in her own. It

was hard to see the small arms going around his neck and hear the

choking voice relate what had frightened her, when she, Scarlett,

had gotten nothing coherent out of her.

"So it sat on your chest," said Rhett softly. "Was it a big one?"

"Oh, yes! Dretfull big. And claws."

"Ah, claws, too. Well, now. I shall certainly sit up all night

and shoot him if he comes back." Rhett's voice was interested and

soothing and Bonnie's sobs died away. Her voice became less choked

as she went into detailed description of her monster guest in a

language which only he could understand. Irritation stirred in

Scarlett as Rhett discussed the matter as if it had been something

real.

"For Heaven's sake, Rhett--"

But he made a sign for silence. When Bonnie was at last asleep, he

laid her in her bed and pulled up the sheet.

"I'm going to skin that nigger alive," he said quietly. "It's your

fault too. Why didn't you come up here to see if the light was

burning?"

"Don't be a fool, Rhett," she whispered. "She gets this way

because you humor her. Lots of children are afraid of the dark but

they get over it. Wade was afraid but I didn't pamper him. If

you'd just let her scream for a night or two--"

"Let her scream!" For a moment Scarlett thought he would hit her.

"Either you are a fool or the most inhuman woman I've ever seen."

"I don't want her to grow up nervous and cowardly."

"Cowardly? Hell's afire! There isn't a cowardly bone in her body!

But you haven't any imagination and, of course, you can't

appreciate the tortures of people who have one--especially a child.

If something with claws and horns came and sat on your chest, you'd

tell it to get the hell off you, wouldn't you? Like hell you

would. Kindly remember, Madam, that I've seen you wake up

squalling like a scalded cat simply because you dreamed of running

in a fog. And that's not been so long ago either!"

Scarlett was taken aback, for she never liked to think of that

dream. Moreover, it embarrassed her to remember that Rhett had

comforted her in much the same manner he comforted Bonnie. So she

swung rapidly to a different attack.

"You are just humoring her and--"

"And I intend to keep on humoring her. If I do, she'll outgrow it

and forget about it."

"Then," said Scarlett acidly, "if you intend to play nursemaid, you

might try coming home nights and sober too, for a change."

"I shall come home early but drunk as a fiddler's bitch if I

please."

He did come home early thereafter, arriving long before time for

Bonnie to be put to bed. He sat beside her, holding her hand until

sleep loosened her grasp. Only then did he tiptoe downstairs,

leaving the lamp burning brightly and the door ajar so he might

hear her should she awake and become frightened. Never again did

he intend her to have a recurrence of fear of the dark. The whole

household was acutely conscious of the burning light, Scarlett,

Mammy, Prissy and Pork, frequently tiptoeing upstairs to make sure

that it still burned.

He came home sober too, but that was none of Scarlett's doing. For

months he had been drinking heavily, though he was never actually

drunk, and one evening the smell of whisky was especially strong

upon his breath. He picked up Bonnie, swung her to his shoulder

and asked her: "Have you a kiss for your sweetheart?"

She wrinkled her small upturned nose and wriggled to get down from

his arms.

"No," she said frankly. "Nasty."

"I'm what?"

"Smell nasty. Uncle Ashley don't smell nasty."

"Well, I'll be damned," he said ruefully, putting her on the floor.

"I never expected to find a temperance advocate in my own home, of

all places!"

But, thereafter, he limited his drinking to a glass of wine after

supper. Bonnie, who was always permitted to have the last drops in

the glass, did not think the smell of wine nasty at all. As the

result, the puffiness which had begun to obscure the hard lines of

his cheeks slowly disappeared and the circles beneath his black

eyes were not so dark or so harshly cut. Because Bonnie liked to

ride on the front of his saddle, he stayed out of doors more and

the sunburn began to creep across his dark face, making him

swarthier than ever. He looked healthier and laughed more and was

again like the dashing young blockader who had excited Atlanta

early in the war.

People who had never liked him came to smile as he went by with the

small figure perched before him on his saddle. Women who had

heretofore believed that no woman was safe with him, began to stop

and talk with him on the streets, to admire Bonnie. Even the

strictest old ladies felt that a man who could discuss the ailments

and problems of childhood as well as he did could not be altogether

bad.

CHAPTER LIII