It seemed as if her neck would snap if he shook her again. She was

blinded by her hair and stunned by his action. She wrenched

herself away and stared at him. There were small beads of moisture

on his forehead and his fists were curled into claws as if in pain.

He looked at her directly, his gray eyes piercing.

"It's all my fault--none of yours and it will never happen again,

because I am going to take Melanie and the baby and go."

"Go?" she cried in anguish. "Oh, no!"

"Yes, by God! Do you think I'll stay here after this? When this

might happen again--"

"But, Ashley, you can't go. Why should you go? You love me--"

"You want me to say it? All right, I'll say it. I love you."

He leaned over her with a sudden savagery which made her shrink

back against the fence.

"I love you, your courage and your stubbornness and your fire and

your utter ruthlessness. How much do I love you? So much that a

moment ago I would have outraged the hospitality of the house which

has sheltered me and my family, forgotten the best wife any man

ever had--enough to take you here in the mud like a--"

She struggled with a chaos of thoughts and there was a cold pain in

her heart as if an icicle had pierced it. She said haltingly: "If

you felt like that--and didn't take me--then you don't love me."

"I can never make you understand."

They fell silent and looked at each other. Suddenly Scarlett

shivered and saw, as if coming back from a long journey, that it

was winter and the fields were bare and harsh with stubble and she

was very cold. She saw too that the old aloof face of Ashley, the

one she knew so well, had come back and it was wintry too, and

harsh with hurt and remorse.

She would have turned and left him then, seeking the shelter of the

house to hide herself, but she was too tired to move. Even speech

was a labor and a weariness.

"There is nothing left," she said at last. "Nothing left for me.

Nothing to love. Nothing to fight for. You are gone and Tara is

going."

He looked at her for a long space and then, leaning, scooped up a

small wad of red clay from the ground.

"Yes, there is something left," he said, and the ghost of his old

smile came back, the smile which mocked himself as well as her.

"Something you love better than me, though you may not know it.

You've still got Tara."

He took her limp hand and pressed the damp clay into it and closed

her fingers about it. There was no fever in his hands now, nor in

hers. She looked at the red soil for a moment and it meant nothing

to her. She looked at him and realized dimly that there was an

integrity of spirit in him which was not to be torn apart by her

passionate hands, nor by any hands.

If it killed him, he would never leave Melanie. If he burned for

Scarlett until the end of his days, he would never take her and he

would fight to keep her at a distance. She would never again get

through that armor. The words, hospitality and loyalty and honor,

meant more to him than she did.

The clay was cold in her hand and she looked at it again.

"Yes," she said, "I've still got this."

At first, the words meant nothing and the clay was only red clay.

But unbidden came the thought of the sea of red dirt which

surrounded Tara and how very dear it was and how hard she had

fought to keep it--how hard she was going to have to fight if she

wished to keep it hereafter. She looked at him again and wondered

where the hot flood of feeling had gone. She could think but could

not feel, not about him nor Tara either, for she was drained of all

emotion.

"You need not go," she said clearly. "I won't have you all starve,

simply because I've thrown myself at your head. It will never

happen again."

She turned away and started back toward the house across the rough

fields, twisting her hair into a knot upon her neck. Ashley

watched her go and saw her square her small thin shoulders as she

went. And that gesture went to his heart, more than any words she

had spoken.

CHAPTER XXXII

She was still clutching the ball of red clay when she went up the

front steps. She had carefully avoided the back entrance, for

Mammy's sharp eyes would certainly have seen that something was

greatly amiss. Scarlett did not want to see Mammy or anyone else.

She did not feel that she could endure seeing anyone or talking to

anyone again. She had no feeling of shame or disappointment or

bitterness now, only a weakness of the knees and a great emptiness

of heart. She squeezed the clay so tightly it ran out from her

clenched fist and she said over and over, parrot-like: "I've still

got this. Yes, I've still got this."

There was nothing else she did have, nothing but this red land,

this land she had been willing to throw away like a torn

handkerchief only a few minutes before. Now, it was dear to her

again and she wondered dully what madness had possessed her to hold

it so lightly. Had Ashley yielded, she could have gone away with

him and left family and friends without a backward look but, even

in her emptiness, she knew it would have torn her heart to leave

these dear red hills and long washed gullies and gaunt black pines.

Her thoughts would have turned back to them hungrily until the day

she died. Not even Ashley could have filled the empty spaces in

her heart where Tara had been uprooted. How wise Ashley was and

how well he knew her! He had only to press the damp earth into her

hand to bring her to her senses.

She was in the hall preparing to close the door when she heard the

sound of horse's hooves and turned to look down the driveway. To

have visitors at this of all times was too much. She'd hurry to

her room and plead a headache.

But when the carriage came nearer, her flight was checked by her

amazement. It was a new carriage, shiny with varnish, and the

harness was new too, with bits of polished brass here and there.

Strangers, certainly. No one she knew had the money for such a

grand new turn-out as this.

She stood in the doorway watching, the cold draft blowing her

skirts about her damp ankles. Then the carriage stopped in front

of the house and Jonas Wilkerson alighted. Scarlett was so

surprised at the sight of their former overseer driving so fine a

rig and in so splendid a greatcoat she could not for a moment

believe her eyes. Will had told her he looked quite prosperous

since he got his new job with the Freedmen's Bureau. Made a lot of

money, Will said, swindling the niggers or the government, one or

tuther, or confiscating folks' cotton and swearing it was

Confederate government cotton. Certainly he never came by all that

money honestly in these hard times.

And here he was now, stepping out of an elegant carriage and

handing down a woman dressed within an inch of her life. Scarlett

saw in a glance that the dress was bright in color to the point of

vulgarity but nevertheless her eyes went over the outfit hungrily.

It had been so long since she had even seen stylish new clothes.

Well! So hoops aren't so wide this year, she thought, scanning the

red plaid gown. And, as she took in the black velvet paletot, how

short jackets are! And what a cunning hat! Bonnets must be out of

style, for this hat was only an absurd flat red velvet affair,

perched on the top of the woman's head like a stiffened pancake.

The ribbons did not tie under the chin as bonnet ribbons tied but

in the back under the massive bunch of curls which fell from the

rear of the hat, curls which Scarlett could not help noticing did

not match the woman's hair in either color or texture.

As the woman stepped to the ground and looked toward the house,

Scarlett saw there was something familiar about the rabbity face,

caked with white powder.

"Why, it's Emmie Slattery!" she cried, so surprised she spoke the

words aloud.

"Yes'm, it's me," said Emmie, tossing her head with an ingratiating

smile and starting toward the steps.

Emmie Slattery! The dirty tow-headed slut whose illegitimate baby

Ellen had baptized, Emmie who had given typhoid to Ellen and killed

her. This overdressed, common, nasty piece of poor white trash was

coming up the steps of Tara, bridling and grinning as if she

belonged here. Scarlett thought of Ellen and, in a rush, feeling

came back into the emptiness of her mind, a murderous rage so

strong it shook her like the ague.

"Get off those steps, you trashy wench!" she cried. "Get off this

land! Get out!"

Emmie's jaw sagged suddenly and she glanced at Jonas who came up

with lowering brows. He made an effort at dignity, despite his

anger.

"You must not speak that way to my wife," he said.

"Wife?" said Scarlett and burst into a laugh that was cutting with

contempt. "High time you made her your wife. Who baptized your

other brats after you killed my mother?"

Emmie said "Oh!" and retreated hastily down the steps but Jonas

stopped her flight toward the carriage with a rough grip on her

arm.

"We came out here to pay a call--a friendly call," he snarled.

"And talk a little business with old friends--"

"Friends?" Scarlett's voice was like a whiplash. "When were we

ever friends with the like of you? The Slatterys lived on our

charity and paid it back by killing Mother--and you--you-- Pa

discharged you about Emmie's brat and you know it. Friends? Get

off this place before I call Mr. Benteen and Mr. Wilkes."

Under the words, Emmie broke her husband's hold and fled for the

carriage, scrambling in with a flash of patent-leather boots with

bright-red tops and red tassels.

Now Jonas shook with a fury equal to Scarlett's and his sallow face

was as red as an angry turkey gobbler's.

"Still high and mighty, aren't you? Well, I know all about you. I

know you haven't got shoes for your feet. I know your father's

turned idiot--"

"Get off this place!"

"Oh, you won't sing that way very long. I know you're broke. I

know you can't even pay your taxes. I came out here to offer to

buy this place from you--to make you a right good offer. Emmie had

a hankering to live here. But, by God, I won't give you a cent

now! You highflying, bog-trotting Irish will find out who's

running things around here when you get sold out for taxes. And

I'll buy this place, lock, stock and barrel--furniture and all--and

I'll live in it."

So it was Jonas Wilkerson who wanted Tara--Jonas and Emmie, who in

some twisted way thought to even past slights by living in the home

where they had been slighted. All her nerves hummed with hate, as

they had hummed that day when she shoved the pistol barrel into the

Yankee's bearded face and fired. She wished she had that pistol

now.

"I'll tear this house down, stone by stone, and burn it and sow

every acre with salt before I see either of you put foot over this

threshold," she shouted. "Get out, I tell you! Get out!"

Jonas glared at her, started to say more and then walked toward the

carriage. He climbed in beside his whimpering wife and turned the

horse. As they drove off, Scarlett had the impulse to spit at

them. She did spit. She knew it was a common, childish gesture

but it made her feel better. She wished she had done it while they

could see her.

Those damned nigger lovers daring to come here and taunt her about

her poverty! That hound never intended offering her a price for

Tara. He just used that as an excuse to come and flaunt himself

and Emmie in her face. The dirty Scallawags, the lousy trashy poor

whites, boasting they would live at Tara!

Then, sudden terror struck her and her rage melted. God's

nightgown! They will come and live here! There was nothing she

could do to keep them from buying Tara, nothing to keep them from

levying on every mirror and table and bed, on Ellen's shining

mahogany and rosewood, and every bit of it precious to her, scarred

though it was by the Yankee raiders. And the Robillard silver too.

I won't let them do it, thought Scarlett vehemently. No, not if

I've got to burn the place down! Emmie Slattery will never set her

foot on a single bit of flooring Mother ever walked on!

She closed the door and leaned against it and she was very

frightened. More frightened even than she had been that day when

Sherman's army was in the house. That day the worst she could fear

was that Tara would be burned over her head. But this was worse--

these low common creatures living in this house, bragging to their

low common friends how they had turned the proud O'Haras out.

Perhaps they'd even bring negroes here to dine and sleep. Will had

told her Jonas made a great to-do about being equal with the

negroes, ate with them, visited in their houses, rode them around

with him in his carriage, put his arms around their shoulders.

When she thought of the possibility of this final insult to Tara,

her heart pounded so hard she could scarcely breathe. She was

trying to get her mind on her problem, trying to figure some way

out, but each time she collected her thoughts, fresh gusts of rage

and fear shook her. There must be some way out, there must be

someone somewhere who had money she could borrow. Money couldn't

just dry up and blow away. Somebody had to have money. Then the

laughing words of Ashley came back to her:

"Only one person, Rhett Butler . . . who has money."

Rhett Butler. She walked quickly into the parlor and shut the door

behind her. The dim gloom of drawn blinds and winter twilight

closed about her. No one would think of hunting for her here and

she wanted time to think, undisturbed. The idea which had just

occurred to her was so simple she wondered why she had not thought

of it before.

"I'll get the money from Rhett. I'll sell him the diamond earbobs.

Or I'll borrow the money from him and let him keep the earbobs till

I can pay him back."

For a moment, relief was so great she felt weak. She would pay the

taxes and laugh in Jonas Wilkerson's face. But close on this happy

thought came relentless knowledge.

"It's not only for this year that I'll need tax money. There's

next year and all the years of my life. If I pay up this time,

they'll raise the taxes higher next time till they drive me out.

If I make a good cotton crop, they'll tax it till I'll get nothing

for it or maybe confiscate it outright and say it's Confederate

cotton. The Yankees and the scoundrels teamed up with them have

got me where they want me. All my life, as long as I live, I'll be

afraid they'll get me somehow. All my life I'll be scared and

scrambling for money and working myself to death, only to see my

work go for nothing and my cotton stolen. . . . Just borrowing

three hundred dollars for the taxes will be only a stopgap. What I

want is to get out of this fix, for good--so I can go to sleep at

night without worrying over what's going to happen to me tomorrow,

and next month, and next year."

Her mind ticked on steadily. Coldly and logically an idea grew in

her brain. She thought of Rhett, a flash of white teeth against

swarthy skin, sardonic black eyes caressing her. She recalled the

hot night in Atlanta, close to the end of the siege, when he sat on

Aunt Pitty's porch half hidden in the summer darkness, and she felt

again the heat of his hand upon her arm as he said: "I want you

more than I have ever wanted any woman--and I've waited longer for

you than I've ever waited for any woman."

"I'll marry him," she thought coolly. "And then I'll never have to

bother about money again."

Oh, blessed thought, sweeter than hope of Heaven, never to worry

about money again, to know that Tara was safe, that the family was

fed and clothed, that she would never again have to bruise herself

against stone walls!

She felt very old. The afternoon's events had drained her of all

feeling, first the startling news about the taxes, then Ashley and,

last, her murderous rage at Jonas Wilkerson. No, there was no

emotion left in her. If all her capacity to feel had not been

utterly exhausted, something in her would have protested against

the plan taking form in her mind, for she hated Rhett as she hated

no other person in all the world. But she could not feel. She

could only think and her thoughts were very practical.

"I said some terrible things to him that night when he deserted us

on the road, but I can make him forget them," she thought

contemptuously, still sure of her power to charm. "Butter won't

melt in my mouth when I'm around him. I'll make him think I always

loved him and was just upset and frightened that night. Oh, men

are so conceited they'll believe anything that flatters them. . . .

I must never let him dream what straits we're in, not till I've got

him. Oh, he mustn't know! If he even suspected how poor we are,

he'd know it was his money I wanted and not himself. After all,

there's no way he could know, for even Aunt Pitty doesn't know the

worst. And after I've married him, he'll have to help us. He

can't let his wife's people starve."

His wife. Mrs. Rhett Butler. Something of repulsion, buried deep

beneath her cold thinking, stirred faintly and then was stilled.

She remembered the embarrassing and disgusting events of her brief

honeymoon with Charles, his fumbling hands, his awkwardness, his

incomprehensible emotions--and Wade Hampton.

"I won't think about it now. I'll bother about it after I've

married him. . . ."

After she had married him. Memory rang a bell. A chill went down

her spine. She remembered again that night on Aunt Pitty's porch,

remembered how she asked him if he was proposing to her, remembered

how hatefully he had laughed and said: "My dear, I'm not a

marrying man."

Suppose he was still not a marrying man. Suppose despite all her

charms and wiles, he refused to marry her. Suppose--oh, terrible

thought!--suppose he had completely forgotten about her and was

chasing after some other woman.

"I want you more than I have ever wanted any woman. . . ."

Scarlett's nails dug into her palms as she clenched her fists. "If

he's forgotten me, I'll make him remember me. I'll make him want

me again."

And, if he would not marry her but still wanted her, there was a

way to get the money. After all, he had once asked her to be his

mistress.