Its demands, the knavish stupidity of Jefferson Davis and the

blackguardery of the Irish who were being enticed into the Yankee

army by bounty money.

When the wine was on the table and the two girls rose to leave

him, Gerald cocked a severe eye at his daughter from under

frowning brows and commanded her presence alone for a few minutes.

Scarlett cast a despairing glance at Melly, who twisted her

handkerchief helplessly and went out, softly pulling the sliding

doors together.

"How now, Missy!" bawled Gerald, pouring himself a glass of port.

"'Tis a fine way to act! Is it another husband you're trying to

catch and you so fresh a widow?"

"Not so loud, Pa, the servants--"

"They know already, to be sure, and everybody knows of our

disgrace. And your poor mother taking to her bed with it and me

not able to hold up me head. 'Tis shameful. No, Puss, you need

not think to get around me with tears this time," he said hastily

and with some panic in his voice as Scarlett's lids began to bat

and her mouth to screw up. "I know you. You'd be flirting at the

wake of your husband. Don't cry. There, I'll be saying no more

tonight, for I'm going to see this fine Captain Butler who makes

so light of me daughter's reputation. But in the morning-- There

now, don't cry. Twill do you no good at all, at all. 'Tis firm

that I am and back to Tara you'll be going tomorrow before you're

disgracing the lot of us again. Don't cry, pet. Look what I've

brought you! Isn't that a pretty present? See, look! How could

you be putting so much trouble on me, bringing me all the way up

here when 'tis a busy man I am? Don't cry!"

Melanie and Pittypat had gone to sleep hours before, but Scarlett

lay awake in the warm darkness, her heart heavy and frightened in

her breast. To leave Atlanta when life had just begun again and

go home and face Ellen! She would rather die than face her

mother. She wished she were dead, this very minute, then everyone

would be sorry they had been so hateful. She turned and tossed on

the hot pillow until a noise far up the quiet street reached her

ears. It was an oddly familiar noise, blurred and indistinct

though it was. She slipped out of bed and went to the window.

The street with its over-arching trees was softly, deeply black

under a dim star-studded sky. The noise came closer, the sound of

wheels, the plod of a horse's hooves and voices. And suddenly she

grinned for, as a voice thick with brogue and whisky came to her,

raised in "Peg in a Low-backed Car," she knew. This might not be

Jonesboro on Court Day, but Gerald was coming home in the same

condition.

She saw the dark bulk of a buggy stop in front of the house and

Indistinct figures alight. Someone was with him. Two figures

paused at the gate and she heard the click of the latch and

Gerald's voice came plain,

"Now I'll be giving you the 'Lament for Robert Emmet.' 'Tis a

song you should be knowing, me lad. I'll teach it to you."

"I'd like to learn it," replied his companion, a hint of buried

laughter in his flat drawling voice. "But not now, Mr. O'Hara."

"Oh, my God, it's that hateful Butler man!" thought Scarlett, at

first annoyed. Then she took heart. At least they hadn't shot

each other. And they must be on amicable terms to be coming home

together at this hour and in this condition.

"Sing it I will and listen you will or I'll be shooting you for

the Orangeman you are."

"Not Orangeman--Charlestonian."

"'Tis no better. 'Tis worse. I have two sister-in-laws in

Charleston and I know."

"Is he going to tell the whole neighborhood?" thought Scarlett

panic-stricken, reaching for her wrapper. But what could she do?

She couldn't go downstairs at this hour of the night and drag her

father in from the street.

With no further warning, Gerald, who was hanging on the gate,

threw back his head and began the "Lament," in a roaring bass.

Scarlett rested her elbows on the window sill and listened,

grinning unwillingly. It would be a beautiful song, if only her

father could carry a tune. It was one of her favorite songs and,

for a moment, she followed the fine melancholy of those verses

beginning:

"She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps

And lovers are round her sighing."

The song went on and she heard stirrings in Pittypat's and Melly's

rooms. Poor things, they'd certainly be upset. They were not

used to full-blooded males like Gerald. When the song had

finished, two forms merged into one, came up the walk and mounted

the steps. A discreet knock sounded at the door.

"I suppose I must go down," thought Scarlett. "After all he's my

father and poor Pitty would die before she'd go." Besides, she

didn't want the servants to see Gerald in his present condition.

And if Peter tried to put him to bed, he might get unruly. Pork

was the only one who knew how to handle him.

She pinned the wrapper close about her throat, lit her bedside

candle and hurried down the dark stairs into the front hall.

Setting the candle on the stand, she unlocked the door and in the

wavering light she saw Rhett Butler, not a ruffle disarranged,

supporting her small, thickset father. The "Lament" had evidently

been Gerald's swan song for he was frankly hanging onto his

companion's arm. His hat was gone, his crisp long hair was

tumbled in a white mane, his cravat was under one ear, and there

were liquor stains down his shirt bosom.

"Your father, I believe?" said Captain Butler, his eyes amused in

his swarthy face. He took in her dishabille in one glance that

seemed to penetrate through her wrapper.

"Bring him in," she said shortly, embarrassed at her attire,