her to catch me now. Her eyes are as big as saucers.”
CHAPTER X
Over 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 about 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 you 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 have 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