If she knew little about men's minds, she knew even less about the

minds of women, for they interested her less. She had never had a

girl friend, and she never felt any lack on that account. To her,

all women, including her two sisters, were natural enemies in

pursuit of the same prey--man.

All women with the one exception of her mother.

Ellen O'Hara was different, and Scarlett regarded her as something

holy and apart from all the rest of humankind. When Scarlett was

a child, she had confused her mother with the Virgin Mary, and now

that she was older she saw no reason for changing her opinion. To

her, Ellen represented the utter security that only Heaven or a

mother can give. She knew that her mother was the embodiment of

justice, truth, loving tenderness and profound wisdom--a great

lady.

Scarlett wanted very much to be like her mother. The only

difficulty was that by being just and truthful and tender and

unselfish, one missed most of the joys of life, and certainly many

beaux. And life was too short to miss such pleasant things. Some

day when she was married to Ashley and old, some day when she had

time for it, she intended to be like Ellen. But, until then . . .

CHAPTER IV

That night at supper, Scarlett went through the motions of

presiding over the table in her mother's absence, but her mind was

In a ferment over the dreadful news she had heard about Ashley and

Melanie. Desperately she longed for her mother's return from the

Slatterys', for, without her, she felt lost and alone. What right

had the Slatterys and their everlasting sickness to take Ellen

away from home just at this time when she, Scarlett, needed her so

much?

Throughout the dismal meal, Gerald's booming voice battered

against her ears until she thought she could endure it no longer.

He had forgotten completely about his conversation with her that

afternoon and was carrying on a monologue about the latest news

from Fort Sumter, which he punctuated by hammering his fist on the

table and waving his arms in the air. Gerald made a habit of

dominating the conversation at mealtimes, and usually Scarlett,

occupied with her own thoughts, scarcely heard him; but tonight

she could not shut out his voice, no matter how much she strained

to listen for the sound of carriage wheels that would herald

Ellen's return.

Of course, she did not intend to tell her mother what was so heavy

on her heart, for Ellen would be shocked and grieved to know that

a daughter of hers wanted a man who was engaged to another girl.

But, in the depths of the first tragedy she had ever known, she

wanted the very comfort of her mother's presence. She always felt

secure when Ellen was by her, for there was nothing so bad that

Ellen could not better it, simply by being there.

She rose suddenly from her chair at the sound of creaking wheels

in the driveway and then sank down again as they went on around

the house to the back yard. It could not be Ellen, for she would

alight at the front steps. Then there was an excited babble of

negro voices in the darkness of the yard and high-pitched negro

laughter. Looking out the window, Scarlett saw Pork, who had left

the room a moment before, holding high a flaring pine knot, while

indistinguishable figures descended from a wagon. The laughter

and talking rose and fell in the dark night air, pleasant, homely,

carefree sounds, gutturally soft, musically shrill. Then feet

shuffled up the back-porch stairs and into the passageway leading

to the main house, stopping in the hall just outside the dining

room. There was a brief interval of whispering, and Pork entered,

his usual dignity gone, his eyes rolling and his teeth a-gleam.

"Mist' Gerald," he announced, breathing hard, the pride of a

bridegroom all over his shining face, "you' new 'oman done come."

"New woman? I didn't buy any new woman," declared Gerald,

pretending to glare.

"Yassah, you did, Mist' Gerald! Yassah! An' she out hyah now

wanting ter speak wid you," answered Pork, giggling and twisting

his hands in excitement.

"Well, bring in the bride," said Gerald, and Pork, turning,

beckoned into the hall to his wife, newly arrived from the Wilkes

plantation to become part of the household of Tara. She entered,

and behind her, almost hidden by her voluminous calico skirts,

came her twelve-year-old daughter, squirming against her mother's

legs.

Dilcey was tall and bore herself erectly. She might have been any

age from thirty to sixty, so unlined was her immobile bronze face.