It was high tide of devotion and pride in their hearts, high tide

of the Confederacy, for final victory was at hand. Stonewall

Jackson's triumphs in the Valley and the defeat of the Yankees in

the Seven Days' Battle around Richmond showed that clearly. How

could it be otherwise with such leaders as Lee and Jackson? One

more victory and the Yankees would be on their knees yelling for

peace and the men would be riding home and there would be kissing

and laughter. One more victory and the war was over!

Of course, there were empty chairs and babies who would never see

their fathers' faces and unmarked graves by lonely Virginia creeks

and in the still mountains of Tennessee, but was that too great a

price to pay for such a Cause? Silks for the ladies and tea and

sugar were hard to get, but that was something to joke about.

Besides, the dashing blockade runners were bringing in these very

things under the Yankees' disgruntled noses, and that made the

possession of them many times more thrilling. Soon Raphael Semmes

and the Confederate Navy would tend to those Yankee gunboats and

the ports would be wide open. And England was coming in to help

the Confederacy win the war, because the English mills were

standing idle for want of Southern cotton. And naturally the

British aristocracy sympathized with the Confederacy, as one

aristocrat with another, against a race of dollar lovers like the

Yankees.

So the women swished their silks and laughed and, looking on their

men with hearts bursting with pride, they knew that love snatched

in the face of danger and death was doubly sweet for the strange

excitement that went with it.

When first she looked at the crowd, Scarlett's heart had thump-

thumped with the unaccustomed excitement of being at a party, but

as she half-comprehendingly saw the high-hearted look on the faces

about her, her joy began to evaporate. Every woman present was

blazing with an emotion she did not feel. It bewildered and

depressed her. Somehow, the ball did not seem so pretty nor the

girls so dashing, and the white heat of devotion to the Cause that

was still shining on every face seemed--why, it just seemed silly!

In a sudden flash of self-knowledge that made her mouth pop open

with astonishment, she realized that she did not share with these

women their fierce pride, their desire to sacrifice themselves and

everything they had for the Cause. Before horror made her think:

"No--no! I mustn't think such things! They're wrong--sinful,"

she knew the Cause meant nothing at all to her and that she was

bored with hearing other people talk about it with that fanatic

look in their eyes. The Cause didn't seem sacred to her. The war

didn't seem to be a holy affair, but a nuisance that killed men

senselessly and cost money and made luxuries hard to get. She saw

that she was tired of the endless knitting and the endless bandage

rolling and lint picking that roughened the cuticle of her nails.

And oh, she was so tired of the hospital! Tired and bored and

nauseated with the sickening gangrene smells and the endless

moaning, frightened by the look that coming death gave to sunken

faces.

She looked furtively around her, as the treacherous, blasphemous

thoughts rushed through her mind, fearful that someone might find

them written clearly upon her face. Oh, why couldn't she feel

like those other women! They were whole hearted and sincere in

their devotion to the Cause. They really meant everything they

said and did. And if anyone should ever suspect that she-- No,

no one must ever know! She must go on making a pretense of

enthusiasm and pride in the Cause which she could not feel, acting

out her part of the widow of a Confederate officer who bears her

grief bravely, whose heart is in the grave, who feels that her

husband's death meant nothing if it aided the Cause to triumph.

Oh, why was she different, apart from these loving women? She

could never love anything or anyone so selflessly as they did.

What a lonely feeling it was--and she had never been lonely either