1 #include<stdio.h> 2 #include<stdlib.h> 3 #include<string.h> 4 #define MAX 10000 5 void main(){ 6 struct Word{ 7 char word_str[20]; 8 int mount; 9 }word[MAX]; 10 char temp[20]; 11 int t; 12 FILE *fp; 13 char ch; 14 int flag=0;//指示前一个字符是不是非英文字母字符，前一个字符是非英文字母置flag=0，不是非英文flag=1 15 int i=0,j=0,k=0;//计数 16 for(i=0;i<MAX;i++){//初始化各单词数量为1 17 word[i].mount=1; 18 } 19 i=0; 20 if((fp=fopen(".\\eng.txt","r+"))==NULL){ 21 printf("无法打开此文件"); 22 exit(0); 23 } 24 ch=fgetc(fp); 25 ch=fgetc(fp); 26 while(ch!=EOF){ 27 ch=fgetc(fp); 28 if(!((ch>=‘a‘&&ch<=‘z‘)||(ch>=‘A‘&&ch<=‘Z‘))){ 29 if(flag==1){ 30 flag=0; 31 i++; 32 j=0; 33 for(k=0;k<i-1;k++){ 34 if(strcmp(strlwr(word[i-1].word_str),strlwr(word[k].word_str))==0){ 35 word[k].mount++; 36 i=i-1; 37 } 38 } 39 } 40 } 41 else{ 42 flag=1; 43 word[i].word_str[j]=ch; 44 word[i].word_str[j+1]=‘\0‘; 45 j++; 46 } 47 } 48 fclose(fp); 49 for(k=0;k<=i-1;k++){ 50 printf("%s %d \n",word[k].word_str,word[k].mount); 51 } 52 for(k=0;k<=i-2;k++){ 53 for(j=k+1;j<=i-1;j++){ 54 if(word[k].mount<word[j].mount){ 55 strcpy(temp,word[k].word_str); 56 strcpy(word[k].word_str,word[j].word_str); 57 strcpy(word[j].word_str,temp); 58 t=word[k].mount; 59 word[k].mount=word[j].mount; 60 word[j].mount=t; 61 } 62 } 63 } 64 printf("下面输出使用频率最高的10个单词（相等频率超出10个不计）\n"); 65 for(k=0;k<10;k++){ 66 printf("%s %d \n",word[k].word_str,word[k].mount); 67 } 68 }
上面放的就是我这周周末的改进结果，总算输出正确结果了。因为本人忙于考研所以就没花大量时间，仅仅周末有时间编程了。
接着上周的问题。首先，我改进了几个bug：
1）局部变量内存分配过大，对MAX的分配数太大以至于word结构体在编译运行时局部变量内存分配过大报错。修改后改为10000.
2）我发现读文本文件时，文件指针的前两个fgetc貌似一定是两空格，所以我就在查找循环前面添加了两个ch=fgetc(fp)（见代码行24,25），这样可以避免一些小
bug。
3）上周代码中对单个单词的分辨时，对文本文件格式要求太过于严苛以至于会出现未知bug，后添加flag判断前一个字符是否是空格，使两个单词间即使有多个非字母字符， 也依然可以正常分辨出各个单词。
4）最大的bug，导致程序运行结果对不上。害我调试了两个下午的功能段就出在，排序时两个结构体内容的交换。不能使用上周的直接将两个结构体互相赋值，如果互相直接赋值就会使内容发生覆盖，最后只会输出“i”一个字符。
5）添加了对各单词及其数量的详细输出功能。
接下来，使用了英文文章《飘》的原版一部分，注意仅仅是一部分，就花了大学5到6秒。然后我把全文放上去，大约有2.23mb字节，然后程序运行时间久的就像死机了一样。这说明我解决问题的算法还是很有改进空间的。
我的想法说起来也简单，就是读取文本文件时，边分析单词，边回溯查找重复单词，累加出现单词的个数。最后对所有单词以累计数量排序，打印出数量前10的。
既然是博客，所以就没有画什么UML图了，随意一点吧。博主还得继续复习备考，有心的看客对不住了。
以下是文本文件eng.txt:
TO J.R.M. Part One CHAPTER I SCARLETT O’HARA was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were. In her face were too sharply blended the delicate features of her mother, a Coast aristocrat of French descent, and the heavy ones of her florid Irish father. But it was an arresting face, pointed of chin, square of jaw. Her eyes were pale green without a touch of hazel, starred with bristly black lashes and slightly tilted at the ends. Above them, her thick black brows slanted upward, cutting a startling oblique line in her magnolia-white skin—that skin so prized by Southern women and so carefully guarded with bonnets, veils and mittens against hot Georgia suns. Seated with Stuart and Brent Tarleton in the cool shade of the porch of Tara, her father’s plantation, that bright April afternoon of 1861, she made a pretty picture. Her new
green flowered-muslin dress spread its twelve yards of billowing material over her hoops and exactly matched the flat-heeled green morocco slippers her father had recently brought her from Atlanta. The dress set off to perfection the seventeen-inch waist, the smallest in three counties, and the tightly fitting basque showed breasts well matured for
her sixteen years. But for
all the modesty of her spreading skirts, the demureness of hair netted smoothly into a chignon and the quietness of small white hands folded in her lap, her true
self was poorly concealed. The green eyes in the carefully sweet face were turbulent, willful, lusty with life, distinctly at variance with her decorous demeanor. Her manners had been imposed upon her by her mother’s gentle admonitions and the sterner discipline of her mammy; her eyes were her own.
On either side of her, the twins lounged easily in their chairs, squinting at the sunlight through tall mint-garnished glasses as they laughed and talked, their long
legs, booted to the knee and thick with saddle muscles, crossed negligently. Nineteen years old, six feet two inches tall, long
of bone and hard of muscle, with sunburned faces and deep auburn hair, their eyes merry and arrogant, their bodies clothed in identical blue coats and mustard-colored breeches, they were as much alike as two bolls of cotton.
Outside, the late afternoon sun slanted down in the yard, throwing into gleaming brightness the dogwood trees that were solid masses of white blossoms against the background of new
green. The twins’ horses were hitched in the driveway, big animals, red as their masters’ hair; and around the horses’ legs quarreled the pack of lean, nervous possum hounds that accompanied Stuart and Brent wherever they went. A little aloof, as became an aristocrat, lay a black-spotted carriage dog, muzzle on paws, patiently waiting for
the boys to go home to supper.
Between the hounds and the horses and the twins there was a kinship deeper than that of their constant companionship. They were all healthy, thoughtless young animals, sleek, graceful, high-spirited, the boys as mettlesome as the horses they rode, mettlesome and dangerous but, withal, sweet-tempered to those who knew how to handle them. Although born to the ease of plantation life, waited on hand and foot since infancy, the faces of the three on the porch were neither slack nor soft. They had the vigor and alertness of country people who have spent all their lives in the open and troubled their heads very little with dull things in books. Life in the north Georgia county of Clayton was still new
and, according to the standards of Augusta, Savannah and Charleston, a little crude. The more sedate and older sections of the South looked down their noses at the up-country Georgians, but here in north Georgia, a lack of the niceties of classical education carried no shame, provided a man was smart in the things that mattered. And raising good cotton, riding well, shooting straight, dancing lightly, squiring the ladies with elegance and carrying one’s liquor like a gentleman were the things that mattered.
In these accomplishments the twins excelled, and they were equally outstanding in their notorious inability to learn anything contained between the covers of books. Their family had more money, more horses, more slaves than any one else
in the County, but the boys had less grammar than most of their poor Cracker neighbors.
It was for
this precise reason that Stuart and Brent were idling on the porch of Tara this
April afternoon. They had just been expelled from the University of Georgia, the fourth university that had thrown them out in two years; and their older brothers, Tom and Boyd, had come home with them, because they refused to remain at an institution where the twins were not welcome. Stuart and Brent considered their latest expulsion a fine joke, and Scarlett, who had not willingly opened a book since leaving the Fayetteville Female Academy the year before, thought it just as amusing as they did.
“I know you two don’t care about being expelled, or Tom either,” she said. “But what about Boyd? He’s kind of set on getting an education, and you two have pulled him out of the University of Virginia and Alabama and South Carolina and now Georgia. He’ll never get finished at this
rate.”
“Oh, he can read law in Judge Parmalee’s office over in Fayetteville,” answered Brent carelessly. “Besides, it don’t matter much. We’d have had to come home before the term was out anyway.” “Why?” “The war, goose! The war’s going to start any day, and you don’t suppose any of us would stay in college with a war going on, do
you?”
“You know there isn’t going to be any war,” said Scarlett, bored. “It’s all just talk. Why, Ashley Wilkes and his father told Pa just last week that our commissioners in Washington would come to—to—an—amicable agreement with Mr. Lincoln about the Confederacy. And anyway, the Yankees are too scared of us to fight. There won’t be any war, and I’m tired of hearing about it.” “Not going to be any war!” cried the twins indignantly, as though they had been defrauded. “Why, honey, of course there’s going to be a war,” said Stuart. The Yankees may be scared of us, but after the way General Beauregard shelled them out of Fort Sumter day before yesterday, they’ll have to fight or stand branded as cowards before the whole world. Why, the Confederacy—” Scarlett made a mouth of bored impatience. If you say ‘war’ just once more, I’ll go in the house and shut the door. I’ve never gotten so tired of any one word in my life as ‘war,’ unless it’s ‘secession.’ Pa talks war morning, noon and night, and all the gentlemen who come to see him shout about Fort Sumter and States’ Rights and Abe Lincoln till I get so bored I could scream! And that’s all the boys talk about, too, that and their old Troop. There hasn’t been any fun at any party this
spring because the boys can’t talk about anything else. I’m mighty glad Georgia waited till after Christmas before it seceded or it would have ruined the Christmas parties, too. If you say ‘war’ again, I’ll go in the house.”
She meant what she said, for
she could never long
endure any conversation of which she was not the chief subject. But she smiled when she spoke, consciously deepening her dimple and fluttering her bristly black lashes as swiftly as butterflies’ wings. The boys were enchanted, as she had intended them to be, and they hastened to apologize for
boring her. They thought none the less of her for
her lack of interest. Indeed, they thought more. War was men’s business, not ladies’, and they took her attitude as evidence of her femininity.
Having maneuvered them away from the boring subject of war, she went back with interest to their immediate situation. “What did your mother say about you two being expelled again?” The boys looked uncomfortable, recalling their mother’s conduct three months ago when they had come home, by request, from the University of Virginia. “Well,” said Stuart, “she hasn’t had a chance to say anything yet. Tom and us left home early this
morning before she got up, and Tom’s laying out over at the Fontaines’ while
we came over here.”
“Didn’t she say anything when you got home last night?” “We were in luck last night. Just before we got home that new
stallion Ma got in Kentucky last month was brought in, and the place was in a stew. The big brute—he’s a grand horse, Scarlett; you must tell your pa to come over and see him right away—he’d already bitten a hunk out of his groom on the way down here and he’d trampled two of Ma’s darkies who met the train at Jonesboro. And just before we got home, he’d about kicked the stable down and half-killed Strawberry, Ma’s old stallion. When we got home, Ma was out in the stable with a sackful of sugar smoothing him down and doing it mighty well, too. The darkies were hanging from the rafters, popeyed, they were so scared, but Ma was talking to the horse like he was folks and he was eating out of her hand. There ain’t nobody like Ma with a horse. And when she saw us she said: ‘In Heaven’s name, what are you four doing home again? You’re worse than the plagues of Egypt!’ And then the horse began snorting and rearing and she said: ‘Get out of here! Can’t you see he’s nervous, the big darling? I’ll tend to you four in the morning!’ So we went to bed, and this
morning we got away before she could catch
us. and left Boyd to handle her.”
“Do you suppose she’ll hit Boyd?” Scarlett, like the rest of the County, could never get used to the way small Mrs. Tarleton bullied her grown sons and laid her riding crop on their backs if
the occasion seemed to warrant it.
Beatrice Tarleton was a busy woman, having on her hands not only a large cotton plantation, a hundred negroes and eight children, but the largest horse-breeding farm in the state as well. She was hot-tempered and easily plagued by the frequent scrapes of her four sons, and while
no one was permitted to whip a horse or a slave, she felt that a lick now and then didn’t do
the boys any harm.
“Of course she won’t hit Boyd. She never did beat Boyd much because he’s the oldest and besides he’s the runt of the litter,” said Stuart, proud of his six feet two. “That’s why we left him at home to explain things to her. God’lmighty, Ma ought to stop licking us! We’re nineteen and Tom’s twenty-one, and she acts like we’re six years old.” “Will your mother ride the new
horse to the Wilkes barbecue tomorrow?”
“She wants to, but Pa says he’s too dangerous. And, anyway, the girls won’t let her. They said they were going to have her go to one party at least like a lady, riding in the carriage.” “I hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow,” said Scarlett. “It’s rained nearly every day for
a week. There’s nothing worse than a barbecue turned into an indoor picnic.”
“Oh, it’ll be clear tomorrow and hot as June,” said Stuart. “Look at Oat sunset I never saw one redder. You can always tell weather by sunsets.” They looked out across the endless acres of Gerald O’Hara’s newly plowed cotton fields toward the red horizon. Now that the sun was setting in a welter of crimson behind tin lulls across the Flint River, the warmth of the April day was ebbing into a faint but balmy chill. Spring had come early that year, with warm quick rains and sudden frothing of pink peach blossoms and dogwood dappling with white stars the dark river swamp and far-off hills. Already the plowing was nearly finished, and the bloody glory of the sunset colored the fresh-cut furrows of red Georgia clay to even redder hues. The moist hungry earth, waiting upturned for
the cotton seeds, showed pinkish on the sandy tops of furrows, vermilion and scarlet and maroon where shadows lay along the sides of the trenches. The whitewashed brick plantation house seemed an island set in a wild red sea, a sea of spiraling, curving, crescent billows petrified suddenly at the moment when the pink-tipped waves were breaking into surf. For here were no long, straight furrows, such as could be seen in the yellow clay fields of the flat middle Georgia country or in the lush black earth of the coastal plantations. The rolling foothill country of north Georgia was plowed in a million curves to keep the rich earth from washing down into the river bottoms.
It was a savagely red land, blood-colored after rains, brick dust in droughts, the best cotton land in the world. It was a pleasant land of white houses, peaceful plowed fields and sluggish yellow rivers, but a land of contrasts, of brightest sun glare and densest shade. The plantation clearings and miles of cotton fields smiled up to a warm sun, placid, complacent. At their edges rose the virgin forests, dark and cool even in the hottest noons, mysterious, a little sinister, the soughing pines seeming to wait with an age-old patience, to threaten with soft sighs: “Be careful! Be careful! We had you once. We can take you back again.” To the ears of the three on the porch came the sounds of hooves, the jingling of harness chains and the shrill careless laughter of negro voices, as the field hands and mules came in from the fields. From within the house floated the soft voice of Scarlett’s mother, Ellen O’Hara, as she called to the little black girl who carried her basket of keys. The high-pitched, childish voice answered “Yas’m,” and there were sounds of footsteps going out the back way toward the smokehouse where Ellen would ration out the food to the home-coming hands. There was the click of china and the rattle of silver as Pork, the valet-butler of Tara, laid the table for
supper.
At these last sounds, the twins realized it was time
they were starting home. But they were loath to face their mother and they lingered on the porch of Tara, momentarily expecting Scarlett to give them an invitation to supper.
“Look, Scarlett. About tomorrow,” said Brent. “Just because we’ve been away and didn’t know about the barbecue and the ball, that’s no reason why we shouldn’t get plenty of dances tomorrow night. You haven’t promised them all, have you?” “Well, I have! How did I know you all would be home? I couldn’t risk being a wallflower just waiting on you two.” “You a wallflower!” The boys laughed uproariously. “Look, honey. You’ve got to give me the first waltz and Stu the last one and you’ve got to eat supper with us. We’ll sit on the stair landing like we did at the last ball and get Mammy Jincy to come tell our fortunes again.” “I don’t like Mammy Jincy’s fortunes. You know she said I was going to marry a gentleman with jet-black hair and a long
black mustache, and I don’t like black-haired gentlemen.”
“You like ‘em red-headed, don’t you, honey?” grinned Brent “Now, come on, promise us all the waltzes and the supper.” “If you’ll promise, we’ll tell you a secret,” said Stuart. “What?” cried Scarlett, alert as a child at the word. “Is it what we heard yesterday in Atlanta, Stu? If it is, you know we promised not to tell.” “Well, Miss Pitty told us.” “Miss Who?” “You know, Ashley Wilkes’ cousin who lives in Atlanta, Miss Pittypat Hamilton—Charles and Melanie Hamilton’s aunt.” “I do, and a sillier old lady I never met in all my life.”
“Well, when we were in Atlanta yesterday, waiting for
the home train, her carriage went by the depot and she stopped and talked to us, and she told us there was going to be an engagement announced tomorrow night at the Wilkes ball.”
“Oh, I know about that,” said Scarlett in disappointment. “That silly nephew of hers, Charlie Hamilton, and Honey Wilkes. Everybody’s known for
years that they’d get married some time, even if
he did seem kind of lukewarm about it.”
“Do you think he’s silly?” questioned Brent. “Last Christmas you sure let him buzz round you plenty.” “I couldn’t help him buzzing,” Scarlett shrugged negligently. “I think he’s an awful sissy.” “Besides, it isn’t his engagement that’s going to be announced,” said Stuart triumphantly. “It’s Ashley’s to Charlie’s sister, Miss Melanie!” Scarlett’s face did not change but her lips went white—like a person who has received a stunning blow without warning and who, in the first moments of shock, does not realize what has happened. So still was her face as she stared at Stuart that he, never analytic, took it for
granted that she was merely surprised and very interested.
“Miss Pitty told us they hadn’t intended announcing it till next year, because Miss Melly hasn’t been very well; but with all the war talk going around, everybody in both families thought it would be better to get married soon. So it’s to be announced tomorrow night at the supper intermission. Now, Scarlett, we’ve told you the secret, so you’ve got to promise to eat supper with us.” “Of course I will,” Scarlett said automatically. “And all the waltzes?” “All.” “You’re sweet! I’ll bet the other boys will be hopping mad.” “Let ‘em be mad,” said Brent. “We two can handle ‘em. Look, Scarlett. Sit with us at the barbecue in the morning.” “What?” Stuart repeated his request. “Of course.” The twins looked at each other jubilantly but with some surprise. Although they considered themselves Scarlett’s favored suitors, they had never before gained tokens of this
favor so easily. Usually she made them beg and plead, while
she put them off, refusing to give a Yes or No answer, laughing if
they sulked, growing cool if
they became angry. And here she had practically promised them the whole of tomorrow—seats by her at the barbecue, all the waltzes (and they’d see to it that the dances were all waltzes!) and the supper intermission. This was worth getting expelled from the university.
Filled with new
enthusiasm by their success, they lingered on, talking about the barbecue and the ball and Ashley Wilkes and Melanie Hamilton, interrupting each other, making jokes and laughing at them, hinting broadly for
invitations to supper. Some time
had passed before they realized that Scarlett was having very little to say. The atmosphere had somehow changed. Just how, the twins did not know, but the fine glow had gone out of the afternoon. Scarlett seemed to be paying little attention to what they said, although she made the correct answers. Sensing something they could not understand, baffled and annoyed by it, the twins struggled along for
a while, and then rose reluctantly, looking at their watches.
The sun was low across the new-plowed fields and the tall woods across the river were looming blackly in silhouette. Chimney swallows were darting swiftly across the yard, and chickens, ducks and turkeys were waddling and strutting and straggling in from the fields.
Stuart bellowed: “Jeems!” And after an interval a tall black boy of their own age ran breathlessly around the house and out toward the tethered horses. Jeems was their body servant and, like the dogs, accompanied them everywhere. He had been their childhood playmate and had been given to the twins for
their own on their tenth birthday. At the sight of him, the Tarleton hounds rose up out of the red dust and stood waiting expectantly for
their masters. The boys bowed, shook hands and told Scarlett they’d be over at the Wilkeses’ early in the morning, waiting for
her. Then they were off down the walk at a rush, mounted their horses and, followed by Jeems, went down the avenue of cedars at a gallop, waving their hats and yelling back to her.
When they had rounded the curve of the dusty road that hid them from Tara, Brent drew his horse to a stop under a clump of dogwood. Stuart halted, too, and the darky boy pulled up a few paces behind them. The horses, feeling slack reins, stretched down their necks to crop the tender spring grass, and the patient hounds lay down again in the soft red dust and looked up longingly at the chimney swallows circling in the gathering dusk. Brent’s wide ingenuous face was puzzled and mildly indignant. “Look,” he said. “Don’t it look to you like she would of asked us to stay for
supper?”
“I thought she would,” said Stuart. I kept waiting for
her to do
it, but she didn’t. What do
you make of it?”
“I don’t make anything of it But it just looks to me like she might of. After all, it’s our first day home and she hasn’t seen us in quite a spell. And we had lots more things to tell her.” “It looked to me like she was mighty glad to see us when we came.” “I thought so, too.” “And then, about a half-hour ago, she got kind of quiet, like she had a headache.” “I noticed that but I didn’t pay it any mind then. What do
you suppose ailed her?”
“I dunno. Do you suppose we said something that made her mad?” They both thought for
a minute.
“I can’t think of anything. Besides, when Scarlett gets
mad, everybody knows it. She don’t hold herself in like some girls do.”
“Yes, that’s what I like about her. She don’t go around being cold and hateful when she’s mad—she tells you about it. But it was something we did or said that made her shut up talking and look sort of sick. I could swear she was glad to see us when we came and was aiming to ask us to supper.” “You don’t suppose it’s because we got expelled?” “Hell, no! Don’t be a fool. She laughed like everything when we told her about it. And besides Scarlett don’t set any more store by book learning than we do.”
Brent turned in the saddle and called to the negro groom. “Jeems!” “Suh?” “You heard what we were talking to Miss Scarlett about?” “Nawsuh, Mist’ Brent! Huccome you think Ah be spyin’ on w’ite folks?” “Spying, my God! You darkies know everything that goes on. Why, you liar, I saw you with my own eyes sidle round the corner of the porch and squat in the cape jessamine bush by the wall. Now, did you hear us say anything that might have made Miss Scarlett mad—or hurt her feelings?” Thus appealed to, Teems gave up further pretense of not having overheard the conversation and furrowed his black brow. “Nawsuh, Ah din’ notice y’all say anything ter mek her mad. Look ter me lak she sho glad ter see you an’ sho had missed you, an’ she cheep along happy as a bird, tell ‘bout de time
y’all got ter talkin’ ‘bout Mist’ Ashley an’ Miss Melly Hamilton gittin’ mah’ied. Den she quiet down lak a bird w’en de hawk fly ober.”
The twins looked at each other and nodded, but without comprehension. “Jeems is right. But I don’t see why,” said Stuart. “My Lord! Ashley don’t mean anything to her, ‘cept a friend. She’s not crazy about him. It’s us she’s crazy about.”
Brent nodded an agreement. “But do
you suppose,” he said, “that maybe Ashley hadn’t told her he was going to announce it tomorrow night and she was mad at him for
not telling her, an old friend, before he told everybody else? Girls set a big store on knowing such things first.”
“Well, maybe. But what if
he hadn’t told her it was tomorrow? It was supposed to be a secret and a surprise, and a man’s got a right to keep his own engagement quiet, hasn’t he? We wouldn’t have known it if
Miss Melly’s aunt hadn’t let it out. But Scarlett must have known he was going to marry Miss Melly sometime. Why, we’ve known it for
years. The Wilkes and Hamiltons always marry their own cousins. Everybody knew he’d probably marry her some day, just like Honey Wilkes is going to marry Miss Melly’s brother, Charles.”
“Well, I give it up. But I’m sorry she didn’t ask us to supper. I swear I don’t want to go home and listen to Ma take on about us being expelled. It isn’t as if
this was the first time.”
“Maybe Boyd will have smoothed her down by now. You know what a slick talker that little varmint is. You know he always can smooth her down.” “Yes, he can do
it, but it takes Boyd time. He has to talk around in circles till Ma gets
so confused that she gives up and tells him to save his voice for
his law practice. But he ain’t had time
to get good started yet. Why, I’ll bet you Ma is still so excited about the new
horse that she’ll never even realize we’re home again till She sits down to supper tonight and sees Boyd. And before supper is over she’ll be going strong and breathing fire. And it’ll be ten o’clock
before Boyd gets
a chance to tell her that it wouldn’t have been honorable for
any of us to stay in college after the way the Chancellor talked to you and me. And it’ll be midnight before he gets
her turned around to where she’s so mad at the Chancellor she’ll be asking Boyd why he didn’t shoot him. No, we can’t go home till after midnight”
The twins looked at each other glumly. They were completely fearless of wild horses, shooting affrays and the indignation of their neighbors, but they had a wholesome fear of their red-haired mother’s outspoken remarks and the riding crop that she did not scruple to lay across their breeches. “Well, look,” said Brent. “Let’s go over to the Wilkes’. Ashley and the girls’ll be glad to have us for
supper.”
Stuart looked a little discomforted. “No, don’t let’s go there. They’ll be in a stew getting ready for
the barbecue tomorrow and besides—”
“Oh, I forgot about that,” said Brent hastily. “No, don’t let’s go there.” They clucked to their horses and rode along in silence for
a while, a flush of embarrassment on Stuart’s brown cheeks. Until the previous summer, Stuart had courted India Wilkes with the approbation of both families and the entire County. The County felt that perhaps the cool and contained India Wilkes would have a quieting effect on him. They fervently hoped so, at any rate. And Stuart might have made the match, but Brent had not been satisfied. Brent liked India but he thought her mighty plain and tame, and he simply could not fall in love with her himself to keep Stuart company. That was the first time
the twins’ interest had ever diverged, and Brent was resentful of his brother’s attentions to a girl who seemed to him not at all remarkable.
Then, last summer at a political speaking in a grove of oak trees at Jonesboro, they both suddenly became aware of Scarlett O’Hara. They had known her for
years, and, since their childhood, she had been a favorite playmate, for
she could ride horses and climb trees almost as well as they. But now to their amazement she had become a grown-up young lady and quite the most charming one in all the world.
They noticed for
the first time
how her green eyes danced, how deep her dimples were when she laughed, how tiny her hands and feet and what a small waist she had. Their clever remarks sent her into merry peals of laughter and, inspired by the thought that she considered them a remarkable pair, they fairly outdid themselves.
It was a memorable day in the life of the twins. Thereafter, when they talked it over, they always wondered just why they had failed to notice Scarlett’s charms before. They never arrived at the correct answer, which was that Scarlett on that day had decided to make them notice. She was constitutionally unable to endure any man being in love with any woman not herself, and the sight of India Wilkes and Stuart at the speaking had been too much for
her predatory nature. Not content with Stuart alone, she had set her cap for
Brent as well, and with a thoroughness that overwhelmed the two of them.
Now they were both in love with her, and India Wilkes and Letty Munroe, from Lovejoy, whom Brent had been half-heartedly courting, were far in the back of their minds. Just what the loser would do, should Scarlett accept either one of them, the twins did not ask. They would cross that bridge when they came to it. For the present they were quite satisfied to be in accord again about one girl, for
they had no jealousies between them. It was a situation which interested the neighbors and annoyed their mother, who had no liking for
Scarlett.
“It will serve you right if
that sly piece does accept one of you,” she said. “Or maybe she’ll accept both of you, and then you’ll have to move to Utah, if
the Mormons’ll have you—which I doubt. ... All that bothers me is that some one of these days you’re both going to get lickered up and jealous of each other about that two-faced, little, green-eyed baggage, and you’ll shoot each other. But that might not be a bad idea either.”
Since the day of the speaking, Stuart had been uncomfortable in India’s presence. Not that India ever reproached him or even indicated by look or gesture that she was aware of his abruptly changed allegiance. She was too much of a lady. But Stuart felt guilty and ill at ease with her. He knew he had made India love him and he knew that she still loved him and, deep in his heart, he had the feeling that he had not played the gentleman. He still liked her tremendously and respected her for
her cool good breeding, her book learning and all the sterling qualities she possessed. But, damn it, she was just so pallid and uninteresting and always the same, beside Scarlett’s bright and changeable charm. You always knew where you stood with India and you never had the slightest notion with Scarlett. That was enough to drive a man to distraction, but it had its charm.
“Well, let’s go over to Cade Calvert’s and have supper. Scarlett said Cathleen was home from Charleston. Maybe she’ll have some news about Fort Sumter that we haven’t heard.” “Not Cathleen. I’ll lay you two to one she didn’t even know the fort was out there in the harbor, much less that it was full of Yankees until we shelled them out. All she’ll know about is the balls she went to and the beaux she collected.” “Well, it’s fun to hear her gabble. And it’ll be somewhere to hide out till Ma has gone to bed.” “Well, hell! I like Cathleen and she is fun and I’d like to hear about Caro Rhett and the rest of the Charleston folks; but I’m damned if
I can stand sitting through another meal with that Yankee stepmother of hers.”
“Don’t be too hard on her, Stuart. She means well.” “I’m not being hard on her. I feel sorry for
her, but I don’t like people I’ve got to feel sorry for. And she fusses around so much, trying to do
the right thing and make you feel at home, that she always manages to say and do
just exactly the wrong thing. She gives me the fidgets! And she thinks Southerners are wild barbarians. She even told Ma so. She’s afraid of Southerners. Whenever we’re there she always looks scared to death. She reminds me of a skinny hen perched on a chair, her eyes kind of bright and blank and scared, all ready to flap and squawk at the slightest move anybody makes.”
“Well, you can’t blame her. You did shoot Cade in the leg.” “Well, I was lickered up or I wouldn’t have done it,” said Stuart. “And Cade never had any hard feelings. Neither did Cathleen or Raiford or Mr. Calvert. It was just that Yankee stepmother who squalled and said I was a wild barbarian and decent people weren’t safe around uncivilized Southerners.” “Well, you can’t blame her. She’s a Yankee and ain’t got very good manners; and, after all, you did shoot him and he is her stepson.” “Well, hell! That’s no excuse for
insulting me! You are Ma’s own blood son, but did she take on that time
Tony Fontaine shot you in the leg? No, she just sent for
old Doc Fontaine to dress it and asked the doctor what ailed Tony’s aim. Said she guessed licker was spoiling his marksmanship. Remember how mad that made Tony?”
Both boys yelled with laughter. “Ma’s a card!” said Brent with loving approval. “You can always count on her to do
the right thing and not embarrass you in front of folks.”
“Yes, but she’s mighty liable to talk embarrassing in front of Father and the girls when we get home tonight,” said Stuart gloomily. “Look, Brent. I guess this
means we don’t go to Europe. You know Mother said if
we got expelled from another college we couldn’t have our Grand Tour.”
“Well, hell! We don’t care, do
we? What is there to see in Europe? I’ll bet those foreigners can’t show us a thing we haven’t got right here in Georgia. I’ll bet their horses aren’t as fast or their girls as pretty, and I know damn well they haven’t got any rye whisky that can touch Father’s.”
“Ashley Wilkes said they had an awful lot of scenery and music. Ashley liked Europe. He’s always talking about it.” “Well—you know how the Wilkes are. They are kind of queer about music and books and scenery. Mother says it’s because their grandfather came from Virginia. She says Virginians set quite a store by such things.” “They can have ‘em. Give me a good horse to ride and some good licker to drink and a good girl to court and a bad girl to have fun with and anybody can have their Europe. ... What do
we care about missing the Tour? Suppose we were in Europe now, with the war coming on? We couldn’t get home soon enough. I’d heap rather go to a war than go to Europe.”
“So would I, any day. ... Look, Brent! I know where we can go for
supper. Let’s ride across the swamp to Abel Wynder’s place and tell him we’re all four home again and ready for
drill.”
“That’s an idea!” cried Brent with enthusiasm. “And we can hear all the news of the Troop and find out what color they finally decided on for
the uniforms.”
“If it’s Zouave, I’m damned if
I’ll go in the troop. I’d feel like a sissy in those baggy red pants. They look like ladies’ red flannel drawers to me.”
“Is y’all aimin’ ter go ter Mist’ Wynder’s? ‘Cause ef you is, you ain’ gwine git much supper,” said Jeems. “Dey cook done died, an’ dey ain’ bought a new
one. Dey got a fe’el han’ cookin’, an’ de niggers tells me she is de wustest cook in de state.”
“Good God! Why don’t they buy another cook?” “Huccome po’ w’ite trash buy any niggers? Dey ain’ never owned mo’n fo’ at de mostes’.” There was frank contempt in Jeems’ voice. His own social status was assured because the Tarletons owned a hundred negroes and, like all slaves of large planters, he looked down on small farmers whose slaves were few. “I’m going to beat your hide off for
that,” cried Stuart fiercely. “Don’t you call Abel Wynder ‘po’ white.’ Sure he’s poor, but he ain’t trash; and I’m damned if
I’ll have any man, darky or White, throwing off on him. There ain’t a better man in this
County, or why else
did the Troop elect him lieutenant?”
“Ah ain’ never figgered dat out, mahseff,” replied Jeems, undisturbed by his master’s scowl. “Look ter me lak dey’d ‘lect all de awficers frum rich gempmum, ‘stead of swamp trash.” “He ain’t trash! Do you mean to compare him with real white trash like the Slatterys? Abel just ain’t rich. He’s a small farmer, not a big planter, and if
the boys thought enough of him to elect him lieutenant, then it’s not for
any darky to talk impudent about him. The Troop knows what it’s doing.”
The troop of cavalry had been organized three months before, the very day that Georgia seceded from the Union, and since then the recruits had been whistling for
war. The outfit was as yet unnamed, though not for
want of suggestions. Everyone had his own idea on that subject and was loath to relinquish it, just as everyone had ideas about the color and cut of the uniforms. “Clayton Wild Cats,” “Fire Eaters,” “North Georgia Hussars,” “Zouaves,” “The Inland Rifles” (although the Troop was to be armed with pistols, sabers and bowie knives, and not with rifles), “The Clayton Grays,” “The Blood and Thunderers,” “The Rough and Readys,” all had their adherents. Until matters were settled, everyone referred to the organization as the Troop and, despite the high-sounding name finally adopted, they were known to the end of their usefulness simply as “The Troop.”
The officers were elected by the members, for
no one in the County had had any military experience except a few veterans of the Mexican and Seminole wars and, besides, the Troop would have scorned a veteran as a leader if
they had not personally liked him and trusted him. Everyone liked the four Tarleton boys and the three Fontaines, but regretfully refused to elect them, because the Tarletons got lickered up too quickly and liked to skylark, and the Fontaines had such quick, murderous tempers. Ashley Wilkes was elected captain, because he was the best rider in the County and because his cool head was counted on to keep some semblance of order. Raiford Calvert was made first lieutenant, because everybody liked Raif, and Abel Wynder, son of a swamp trapper, himself a small farmer, was elected second lieutenant.
Abel was a shrewd, grave giant, illiterate, kind of heart, older than the other boys and with as good or better manners in the presence of ladies. There was little snobbery in the Troop. Too many of their fathers and grandfathers had come up to wealth from the small farmer class
for that. Moreover, Abel was the best shot in the Troop, a real sharpshooter who could pick out the eye of a squirrel at seventy-five yards, and, too, he knew all about living outdoors, building fires in the rain, tracking animals and finding water. The Troop bowed to real worth and moreover, because they liked him, they made him an officer. He bore the honor gravely and with no untoward conceit, as though it were only his due. But the planters’ ladies and the planters’ slaves could not overlook the fact that he was not born a gentleman, even if
their men folks could.
In the beginning, the Troop had been recruited exclusively from the sons of planters, a gentleman’s outfit, each man supplying his own horse, arms, equipment, uniform and body servant. But rich planters were few in the young county of Clayton, and, in order to muster a full-strength troop, it had been necessary to raise
more recruits among the sons of small farmers, hunters in the backwoods, swamp trappers, Crackers and, in a very few cases, even poor whites, if
they were above the average of their class.
These latter young men were as anxious to fight the Yankees, should war come, as were their richer neighbors; but the delicate question of money arose. Few small farmers owned horses. They carried on their farm operations with mules and they had no surplus of these, seldom more than four. The mules could not be spared to go off to war, even if
they had been acceptable for
the Troop, which they emphatically were not. As for
the poor whites, they considered themselves well off if
they owned one mule. The backwoods folks and the swamp dwellers owned neither horses nor mules. They lived entirely off the produce of their lands and the game in the swamp, conducting their business generally by the barter system
and seldom seeing five dollars in cash a year, and horses and uniforms were out of their reach. But they were as fiercely proud in their poverty as the planters were in their wealth, and they would accept nothing that smacked of charity from their rich neighbors. So, to save the feelings of all and to bring the Troop up to full strength, Scarlett’s father, John Wilkes, Buck Munroe, Jim Tarleton, Hugh Calvert, in fact every large planter in the County with the one exception of Angus Macintosh, had contributed money to completely outfit the Troop, horse and man. The upshot of the matter was that every planter agreed to pay for
equipping his own sons and a certain number of the others, but the manner of handling the arrangements was such that the less wealthy members of the outfit could accept horses and uniforms without offense to their honor.
The Troop met twice a week in Jonesboro to drill and to pray for
the war to begin. Arrangements had not yet been completed for
obtaining the full quota of horses, but those who had horses performed what they imagined to be cavalry maneuvers in the field behind the courthouse, kicked up a great deal of dust, yelled themselves hoarse and waved the Revolutionary-war swords that had been taken down from parlor walls. Those who, as yet, had no horses sat on the curb in front of Bullard’s store and watched their mounted comrades, chewed tobacco and told yarns. Or else
engaged in shooting matches. There was no need to teach any of the men to shoot. Most Southerners were born with guns in their hands, and lives spent in hunting had made marksmen of them all.
From planters’ homes and swamp cabins, a varied array of firearms came to each muster. There were long
squirrel guns that had been new
when first the Alleghenies were crossed, old muzzle-loaders that had claimed many an Indian when Georgia was new, horse pistols that had seen service in 1812, in the Seminole wars and in Mexico, silver-mounted dueling pistols, pocket derringers, double-barreled hunting pieces and handsome new
rifles of English make with shining stocks of fine wood.
Drill always ended in the saloons of Jonesboro, and by nightfall so many fights had broken out that the officers were hard put to ward off casualties until the Yankees could inflict them. It was during one of these brawls that Stuart Tarleton had shot Cade Calvert and Tony Fontaine had shot Brent. The twins had been at home, freshly expelled from the University of Virginia, at the time
the Troop was organized and they had joined enthusiastically; but after the shooting episode, two months ago, their mother had packed them off to the state university, with orders to stay there. They had sorely missed the excitement of the drills while
away, and they counted education well lost if
only they could ride and yell and shoot off rifles in the company of their friends.
“Well, let’s cut across country to Abel’s,” suggested Brent. “We can go through Mr. O’Hara’s river bottom and the Fontaine’s pasture and get there in no time.”
“We ain’ gwine git nothin’ ter eat ‘cept possum an’ greens,” argued Jeems. “You ain’t going to get anything,” grinned Stuart “Because you are going home and tell Ma that we won’t be home for
supper.”
“No, Ah ain’!” cried Jeems in alarm. “No, Ah ain’! Ah doan git no mo’ fun outer havin’ Miss Beetriss lay me out dan y’all does. Fust place she’ll ast me huccome Ah let y’all git expelled agin. An’ nex’ thing, huccome Ah din’ bring y’all home ternight so she could lay you out An’ den she’ll light on me lak a duck on a June bug, an’ fust thing Ah know Ah’ll be ter blame fer it all. Ef y’all doan tek me ter Mist’ Wynder’s, Ah’ll lay out in de woods all night an’ maybe de patterollers git me, ‘cause Ah heap ruther de patterollers git me dan Miss Beetriss when she in a state.” The twins looked at the determined black boy in perplexity and indignation. “He’d be just fool enough to let the patterollers get him and that would give Ma something else
to talk about for
weeks. I swear, darkies are more trouble. Sometimes I think the Abolitionists have got the right idea.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be right to make Jeems face what we don’t want to face. We’ll have to take him. But, look, you impudent black fool, if
you put on any airs in front of the Wynder darkies and hint that we all the time
have fried chicken and ham, while
they don’t have nothing but rabbit and possum, I’ll—I’ll tell Ma. And we won’t let you go to the war with us, either.”
“Airs? Me put on airs fo’ dem cheap niggers? Nawsuh, Ah got better manners. Ain’ Miss Beetriss taught me manners same as she taught y’all?” “She didn’t do
a very good job on any of the three of us,” said Stuart. “Come on, let’s get going.”
He backed his big red horse and then, putting spurs to his side, lifted him easily over the split rail fence into the soft field of Gerald O’Hara’s plantation. Brent’s horse followed and then Jeems’, with Jeems clinging to pommel and mane. Jeems did not like to jump fences, but he had jumped higher ones than this
in order to keep up with his masters.
As they picked their way across the red furrows and down the hill to the river bottom in the deepening dusk, Brent yelled to his brother: “Look, Stu! Don’t it seem like to you that Scarlett would have asked us to supper?” “I kept thinking she would,” yelled Stuart “Why do
you suppose ...”
CHAPTER II WHEN THE TWINS left Scarlett standing on the porch of Tara and the last sound of flying hooves had died away, she went back to her chair like a sleepwalker. Her face felt stiff as from pain and her mouth actually hurt from having stretched it, unwillingly, in smiles to prevent the twins from learning her secret. She sat down wearily, tucking one foot under her, and her heart swelled up with misery, until it felt too large for
her bosom. It beat with odd little jerks; her hands were cold, and a feeling of disaster oppressed her. There were pain and bewilderment in her face, the bewilderment of a pampered child who has always had her own way for
the asking and who now, for
the first time, was in contact with the unpleasantness of life.
Ashley to marry Melanie Hamilton! Oh, it couldn’t be true! The twins were mistaken. They were playing one of their jokes on her. Ashley couldn’t, couldn’t be in love with her. Nobody could, not with a mousy little person like Melanie. Scarlett recalled with contempt Melanie’s thin childish figure, her serious heart-shaped face that was plain almost to homeliness. And Ashley couldn’t have seen her in months. He hadn’t been in Atlanta more than twice since the house party he gave last year at Twelve Oaks. No, Ashley couldn’t be in love with Melanie, because—oh, she couldn’t be mistaken!—because he was in love with her! She, Scarlett, was the one he loved—she knew it!
Scarlett heard Mammy’s lumbering tread shaking the floor
of the hall and she hastily untucked her foot and tried to rearrange her face in more placid lines. It would never do
for Mammy to suspect that anything was wrong. Mammy felt that she owned the O’Haras, body and soul, that their secrets were her secrets; and even a hint of a mystery was enough to set her upon the trail as relentlessly as a bloodhound. Scarlett knew from experience that, if
Mammy’s curiosity were not immediately satisfied, she would take up the matter with Ellen, and then Scarlett would be forced to reveal everything to her mother, or think up some plausible lie.
Mammy emerged from the hall, a huge old woman with the small, shrewd eyes of an elephant. She was shining black, pure African, devoted to her last drop of blood to the O’Haras, Ellen’s mainstay, the despair of her three daughters, the terror of the other house servants. Mammy was black, but her code of conduct and her sense of pride were as high as or higher than those of her owners. She had been raised in the bedroom of Solange Robillard, Ellen O’Hara’s mother, a dainty, cold, high-nosed Frenchwoman, who spared neither her children nor her servants their just punishment for
any infringement of decorum. She had been Ellen’s mammy and had come with her from Savannah to the up-country when she married. Whom Mammy loved, she chastened. And, as her love for
Scarlett and her pride in her were enormous, the chastening process was practically continuous.
“Is de gempmum gone? Huccome you din’ ast dem ter stay fer supper, Miss Scarlett? Ah done tole Poke ter lay two extry plates fer dem. Whar’s yo’ manners?” “Oh, I was so tired of hearing them talk about the war that I couldn’t have endured it through supper, especially with Pa joining in and shouting about Mr. Lincoln.” “You ain” got no mo’ manners dan a fe’el han’, an’ affer Miss Ellen an’ me done labored wid you. An’ hyah you is widout yo’ shawl! An’ de night air fixin’ ter set in! Ah done tole you an’ tole you ‘bout gittin’ fever frum settin’ in de night air wid nuthin’ on yo’ shoulders. Come on in de house, Miss Scarlett.” Scarlett turned away from Mammy with studied nonchalance, thankful that her face had been unnoticed in Mammy’s preoccupation with the matter of the shawl. “No, I want to sit here and watch the sunset. It’s so pretty. You run get my shawl. Please, Mammy, and I’ll sit here till Pa comes home.” “Yo’ voice soun’ lak you catchin’ a cole,” said Mammy suspiciously. “Well, I’m not,” said Scarlett Impatiently. “You fetch me my shawl.” Mammy waddled back into the hall and Scarlett heard her call softly up the stairwell to the upstairs maid. “You, Rosa! Drap me Miss Scarlett’s shawl.” Then, more loudly: “Wuthless nigger! She ain’ never whar she does nobody no good. Now, Ah got ter climb up an’ git it mahseff.” Scarlett heard the stairs groan and she got softly to her feet. When Mammy returned she would resume her lecture on Scarlett’s breach of hospitality, and Scarlett felt that she could not endure prating about such a trivial matter when her heart was breaking. As she stood, hesitant, wondering where she could hide until the ache in her breast subsided a little, a thought came to her, bringing a small ray of hope. Her father had ridden over to Twelve Oaks, the Wilkes plantation, that afternoon to offer to buy Dilcey, the broad wife of his valet, Pork. Dilcey was head woman and midwife at Twelve Oaks, and, since the marriage six months ago, Pork had deviled his master night and day to buy Dilcey, so the two could live on the same plantation. That afternoon, Gerald, his resistance worn thin, had set out to make an offer for
Dilcey.
Surely, thought Scarlett, Pa will know whether this
awful story is true. Even if
he hasn’t actually heard anything this
afternoon, perhaps he’s noticed something, sensed some excitement in the Wilkes family. If I can just see him privately before supper, perhaps I’ll find out the truth—that it’s just one of the twins’ nasty practical jokes.
It was time
for Gerald’s return
and, if
she expected to see him alone, there was nothing for
her to do
except meet him where the driveway entered the road. She went quietly down the front steps, looking carefully over her shoulder to make sure Mammy was not observing her from the upstairs windows. Seeing no broad black face, turbaned in snowy white, peering disapprovingly from between fluttering curtains, she boldly snatched up her green flowered skirts and sped down the path toward the driveway as fast as her small ribbon-laced slippers would carry her.
The dark cedars on either side of the graveled drive met in an arch overhead, turning the long
avenue into a dim tunnel. As soon as she was beneath the gnarled arms of the cedars, she knew she was safe from observation from the house and she slowed her swift pace. She was panting, for
her stays were laced too tightly to permit much running, but she walked on as rapidly as she could. Soon she was at the end of the driveway and out on the main road, but she did not stop until she had rounded a curve that put a large clump of trees between her and the house.
Flushed and breathing hard, she sat down on a stump to wait for
her father. It was past time
for him to come home, but she was glad that he was late. The delay would give her time
to quiet her breathing and calm her face so that his suspicions would not be aroused. Every moment she expected to hear the pounding of his horse’s hooves and see him come charging up the hill at his usual breakneck speed. But the minutes slipped by and Gerald did not come. She looked down the road for
him, the pain in her heart swelling up again.
“Oh, it can’t be true!” she thought. “Why doesn’t he come?”
Her eyes followed the winding road, blood-red now after the morning rain. In her thought she traced its course as it ran down the hill to the sluggish Flint River, through the tangled swampy bottoms and up the next hill to Twelve Oaks where Ashley lived. That was all the road meant now—a road to Ashley and the beautiful white-columned house that crowned the hill like a Greek Temple. “Oh, Ashley! Ashley!” she thought, and her heart beat faster. Some of the cold sense of bewilderment and disaster that had weighted her down since the Tarleton boys told her their gossip was pushed into the background of her mind, and in its place crept the fever that had possessed her for
two years.
It seemed strange now that when she was growing up Ashley had never seemed so very attractive to her. In childhood days, she had seen him come and go and never given him a thought. But since that day two years ago when Ashley, newly home from his three years’ Grand Tour in Europe, had called to pay his respects, she had loved him. It was as simple as that. She had been on the front porch and he had ridden up the long
avenue, dressed in gray broadcloth with a wide black cravat setting off his frilled shirt to perfection. Even now, she could recall each detail of his dress, how brightly his boots shone, the head of a Medusa in cameo on his cravat phi, the wide Panama hat that was instantly in his hand when he saw her. He had alighted and tossed his bridle reins to a pickaninny and stood looking up at her, his drowsy gray eyes wide with a smile and the sun so bright on his blond hair that it seemed like a cap of shining silver. And he said, “So you’ve grown up, Scarlett.” And, coming lightly up the steps, he had kissed her hand. And his voice! She would never forget the leap of her heart as she heard it, as if
for the first time, drawling, resonant, musical.
She had wanted him, in that first instant, wanted him as simply and unreasoningly as she wanted food to eat, horses to ride and a soft bed on which to lay herself. For two years he had squired her about the County, to balls, fish fries, picnics and court days, never so often as the Tarleton twins or Cade Calvert, never so importunate as the younger Fontaine boys, but, still, never the week went by that Ashley did not come calling at Tara. True, he never made love to her, nor did the clear gray eyes ever glow with that hot light Scarlett knew so well in other men. And yet—and yet—she knew he loved her. She could not be mistaken about it. Instinct stronger than reason and knowledge born of experience told her that he loved her. Too often she had surprised him when his eyes were neither drowsy nor remote, when he looked at her with a yearning and a sadness which puzzled her. She knew he loved her. Why did he not tell her so? That she could not understand. But there were so many things about him that she did not understand. He was courteous always, but aloof, remote. No one could ever tell what he was thinking about, Scarlett least of all. In a neighborhood where everyone said exactly what he thought as soon as he thought it, Ashley’s quality of reserve was exasperating. He was as proficient as any of the other young men in the usual County diversions, hunting, gambling, dancing and politics, and was the best rider of them all; but he differed from all the rest in that these pleasant activities were not the end and aim of life to him. And he stood alone in his interest in books and music and his fondness for
writing poetry.
Oh, why was he so handsomely blond, so courteously aloof, so maddeningly boring with his talk about Europe and books and music and poetry and things that interested her not at all—and yet so desirable? Night after night, when Scarlett went to bed after sitting on the front porch in the semi-darkness with him, she tossed restlessly for
hours and comforted herself only with the thought that the very next time
he saw her he certainly would propose. But the next time
came and went, and the result was nothing—nothing except that the fever possessing her rose higher and hotter.
She loved him and she wanted him and she did not understand him. She was as forthright and simple as the winds that blew over Tara and the yellow river that wound about it, and to the end of her days she would never be able to understand a complexity. And now, for
the first time
in her life, she was facing a complex nature.
For Ashley was born of a line of men who used their leisure for
thinking, not doing, for
spinning brightly colored dreams that had in them no touch of reality. He moved in an inner world that was more beautiful than Georgia and came back to reality with reluctance. He looked on people, and he neither liked nor disliked them. He looked on life and was neither heartened nor saddened. He accepted the universe and his place in it for
what they were and, shrugging, turned to his music and books and his better world.
Why he should have captivated Scarlett when his mind was a stranger to hers she did not know. The very mystery of him excited her curiosity like a door that had neither lock nor key. The things about him which she could not understand only made her love him more, and his odd, restrained courtship only served to increase her determination to have him for
her own. That he would propose some day she had never doubted, for
she was too young and too spoiled ever to have known defeat. And now, like a thunderclap, had come this
horrible news. Ashley to marry Melanie! It couldn’t be true!
Why, only last week, when they were riding home at twilight from Fairhill, he had said: “Scarlett, I have something so important to tell you that I hardly know how to say it.” She had cast down her eyes demurely, her heart beating with wild pleasure, thinking the happy moment had come. Then he had said: “Not now! We’re nearly home and there isn’t time. Oh, Scarlett, what a coward I am!” And putting spurs to his horse, he had raced her up the hill to Tara.
Scarlett, sitting on the stump, thought of those words which had made her so happy, and suddenly they took on another meaning, a hideous meaning. Suppose it was the news of his engagement he had intended to tell her! Oh, if
Pa would only come home! She could not endure the suspense another moment She looked impatiently down the road again, and again she was disappointed. The sun was now below the horizon and the red glow at the rim of the world faded into pink. The sky above turned slowly from azure to the delicate blue-green of a robin’s egg, and the unearthly stillness of rural twilight came stealthily down about her. Shadowy dimness crept over the countryside. The red furrows and the gashed red road lost their magical blood color and became plain brown earth. Across the road, in the pasture, the horses, mules and cows stood quietly with heads over the split-rail fence, waiting to be driven to the stables and supper. They did not like the dark shade of the thickets hedging the pasture creek, and they twitched their ears at Scarlett as if
appreciative of human companionship.
In the strange half-light, the tall pines of the river swamp, so warmly green in the sunshine, were black against the pastel sky, an impenetrable row of black giants hiding the slow yellow water at their feet. On the hill across the river, the tall white chimneys of the Wilkes, home faded gradually into the darkness of the thick oaks surrounding them, and only far-off pin points of supper lamps showed that a house was here. The warm damp balminess of spring encompassed her sweetly with the moist smells of new-plowed earth and all the fresh green things pushing up to the air.
Sunset and spring and new-fledged greenery were no miracle to Scarlett. Their beauty she accepted as casually as the air she breathed and the water she drank, for
she had never consciously seen beauty in anything bat women’s faces, horses, silk dresses and like tangible things. Yet the serene half-light over Tara’s well-kept acres brought a measure of quiet to her disturbed mind. She loved this
land so much, without even knowing she loved it, loved it as she loved her mother’s face under the lamp at prayer time.
Still there was no sign of Gerald on the quiet winding road. If she had to wait much longer, Mammy would certainly come in search of her and bully her into the house. But even as she strained her eyes down the darkening road, she heard a pounding of hooves at the bottom of the pasture hill and saw the horses and cows scatter in fright. Gerald O’Hara was coming home across country and at top speed. He came up the hill at a gallop on his thick-barreled, long-legged hunter, appearing in the distance like a boy on a too large horse. His long
white hair standing out behind him, he urged the horse forward with crop and loud cries.
Filled with her own anxieties, she nevertheless watched him with affectionate pride, for
Gerald was an excellent horseman.
“I wonder why he always wants to jump fences when he’s had a few drinks,” she thought. “And after that fall he had right here last year when he broke his knee. You’d think he’d learn. Especially when he promised Mother on oath he’d never jump again.” Scarlett had no awe of her father and felt him more her contemporary than her sisters, for
jumping fences and keeping it a secret from his wife gave him a boyish pride and guilty glee that matched her own pleasure in outwitting Mammy. She rose from her seat to watch him.
The big horse reached the fence, gathered himself and soared over as effortlessly as a bird, his rider yelling enthusiastically, his crop beating the air, his white curls jerking out behind him. Gerald did not see his daughter in the shadow of the trees, and he drew rein in the road, patting his horse’s neck with approbation. “There’s none in the County can touch you, nor in the state,” he informed his mount, with pride, the brogue of County Meath still heavy on his tongue in spite of thirty-nine years in America. Then he hastily set about smoothing his hair and settling his ruffled shirt and his cravat which had slipped awry behind one ear. Scarlett knew these hurried preenings were being made with an eye toward meeting his wife with the appearance of a gentleman who had ridden sedately home from a call on a neighbor. She knew also that he was presenting her with just the opportunity she wanted for
opening the conversation without revealing her true
purpose.
She laughed aloud. As she had intended, Gerald was startled by the sound; then he recognized her, and a look both sheepish and defiant came over his florid face. He dismounted with difficulty, because his knee was stiff, and, slipping the reins over his arm, stumped toward her. “Well, Missy,” he said, pinching her cheek, “so, you’ve been spying on me and, like your sister Suellen last week, you’ll be telling your mother on me?” There was indignation in his hoarse bass voice but also a wheedling note, and Scarlett teasingly clicked her tongue against her teeth as she reached out to pull his cravat into place. His breath in her face was strong with Bourbon whisky mingled with a faint fragrance of mint. Accompanying him also were the smells of chewing tobacco, well-oiled leather and horses—a combination of odors that she always associated with her father and instinctively liked in other men. “No, Pa, I’m no tattletale like Suellen,” she assured him, standing off to view his rearranged attire with a judicious air. Gerald was a small man, little more than five feet tall, but so heavy of barrel and thick of neck that his appearance, when seated, led strangers to think him a larger man. His thickset torso was supported by short
sturdy legs, always incased in the finest leather boots procurable and always planted wide apart like a swaggering small boy’s. Most small people who take themselves seriously are a little ridiculous; but the bantam cock is respected in the barnyard, and so it was with Gerald. No one would ever have the temerity to think of Gerald O’Hara as a ridiculous little figure.
He was sixty years old and his crisp curly hair was silver-white, but his shrewd face was unlined and his hard little blue eyes were young with the unworried youthfulness of one who has never taxed his brain with problems more abstract than how many cards to draw in a poker game. His was as Irish a face as could be found in the length and breadth of the homeland he had left so long
ago—round, high colored, short
nosed, wide mouthed and belligerent.
Beneath his choleric exterior Gerald O’Hara had the tenderest of hearts.” He could not bear to see a slave pouting under a reprimand, ho matter how well deserved, or hear a kitten mewing or a child crying; but he had a horror of having this
weakness discovered. That everyone who met him did discover his kindly heart within five minutes was unknown to him; and his vanity would have suffered tremendously if
he had found it out, for
he liked to think that when he bawled orders at the top of his voice everyone trembled and obeyed. It had never occurred to him that only one voice was obeyed on the plantation—the soft voice of his wife Ellen. It was a secret he would never learn, for
everyone from Ellen down to the stupidest field hand was in a tacit and kindly conspiracy to keep him believing that his word was law.
Scarlett was impressed less than anyone else
by his tempers and his roarings. She was his oldest child and, now that Gerald knew there would be no more sons to follow the three who lay in the family burying ground, he had drifted into a habit of treating her in a man-to-man manner which she found most pleasant. She was more like her father than her younger sisters, for
Carreen, who had been born Caroline Irene, was delicate and dreamy, and Suellen, christened Susan Elinor, prided herself on her elegance and ladylike deportment.
Moreover, Scarlett and her father were bound together by a mutual suppression agreement. If Gerald caught her climbing a fence instead of walking half a mile to a gate, or sitting too late on the front steps with a beau, he castigated her personally and with vehemence, but he did not mention the fact to Ellen or to Mammy. And when Scarlett discovered him jumping fences after his solemn promise to his wife, or learned the exact amount of his losses at poker, as she always did from County gossip, she refrained from mentioning the fact at the supper table in the artfully artless manner Suellen had. Scarlett and her father each assured the other solemnly that to bring such matters to the ears of Ellen would only hurt her, and nothing would induce them to wound her gentleness. Scarlett looked at her father in the fading light, and, without knowing why, she found it comforting to be in his presence. There was something vital and earthy and coarse about him that appealed to her. Being the least analytic of people, she did not realize that this
was because she possessed in some degree these same qualities, despite sixteen years of effort on the part of Ellen and Mammy to obliterate them.
“You look very presentable now,” she said, “and I don’t think anyone will suspect you’ve been up to your tricks unless you brag about them. But it does seem to me that after you broke your knee last year, jumping that same fence—” “Well, may I be damned if
I’ll have me own daughter telling me what I shall jump and not jump,” he shouted, giving her cheek another pinch. “It’s me own neck, so it is. And besides, Missy, what are you doing out here without your shawl?”
Seeing that he was employing familiar maneuvers to extricate himself from unpleasant conversation, she slipped her arm through his and said: “I was waiting for
you. I didn’t know you would be so late. I just wondered if
you had bought Dilcey.”
“Bought her I did, and the price has ruined me. Bought her and her little wench, Prissy. John Wilkes was for
almost giving them away, but never will I have it said that Gerald O’Hara used friendship in a trade. I made him take three thousand for
the two of them.”
“In the name of Heaven, Pa, three thousand! And you didn’t need to buy Prissy!” “Has the time
come when me own daughters sit in judgment on me?” shouted Gerald rhetorically. “Prissy is a likely little wench and so—”
“I know her. She’s a sly, stupid creature,” Scarlett rejoined calmly, unimpressed by his uproar. “And the only reason you bought her was because Dilcey asked you to buy her.” Gerald looked crestfallen and embarrassed, as always when caught in a kind deed, and Scarlett laughed outright at his transparency. “Well, what if
I did? Was there any use buying Dilcey if
she was going to mope about the child? Well, never again will I let a darky on this
place marry off it. It’s too expensive. Well, come on, Puss, let’s go in to supper.”
The shadows were falling thicker now, the last greenish tinge had left the sky and a slight chill was displacing the balminess of spring. But Scarlett loitered, wondering how to bring up the subject of Ashley without permitting Gerald to suspect her motive. This was difficult, for
Scarlett had not a subtle bone in her body; and Gerald was so much like her he never failed to penetrate her weak subterfuges, even as she penetrated his. And he was seldom tactful in doing it.
“How are they all over at Twelve Oaks?” “About as usual. Cade Calvert was there and, after I settled about Dilcey, we all set on the gallery and had several toddies. Cade has just come from Atlanta, and it’s all upset they are there and talking war and—” Scarlett sighed. If Gerald once got on the subject of war and secession, it would be hours before he relinquished it She broke in with another line. “Did they say anything about the barbecue tomorrow?” “Now that I think of it they did. Miss—what’s-her-name—the sweet little thing who was here last year, you know, Ashley’s cousin—oh, yes, Miss Melanie Hamilton, that’s the name—she and her brother Charles have already come from Atlanta and—” “Oh, so she did come?” “She did, and a sweet quiet thing she is, with never a word to say for
herself, like a woman should be. Come now, daughter, don’t lag. Your mother will be hunting for
us.”
Scarlett’s heart sank at the news. She had hoped against hope that something would keep Melanie Hamilton in Atlanta where she belonged, and the knowledge that even her father approved of her sweet quiet nature, so different from her own, forced her into the open. “Was Ashley there, too?” “He was.” Gerald let go of his daughter’s arm and turned, peering sharply into her face. “And if
that’s why you came out here to wait for
me, why didn’t you say so without beating around the bush?”
Scarlett could think of nothing to say, and she felt her face growing red with annoyance. “Well, speak up.” Still she said nothing, wishing that it was permissible to shake one’s father and tell him to hush his mouth. “He was there and he asked most kindly after you, as did his sisters, and said they hoped nothing would keep you from the barbecue tomorrow. I’ll warrant nothing will,” he said shrewdly. “And now, daughter, what’s all this
about you and Ashley?”
“There is nothing,” she said shortly, tugging at his arm. “Let’s go in, Pa.” “So now ‘tis you wanting to go in,” he observed. “But here I’m going to stand till I’m understanding you. Now that I think of it ‘tis strange you’ve been recently. Has he been trifling with you? Has he asked to marry you?” “No,” she said shortly. “Nor will he,” said Gerald. Fury flamed in her, but Gerald waved her quiet with a hand. “Hold your tongue, Miss! I had it from John Wilkes this
afternoon in the strictest confidence that Ashley’s to marry Miss Melanie. It’s to be announced tomorrow.”
Scarlett’s hand fell from his arm. So it was true!
A pain slashed at her heart as savagely as a wild animal’s fangs. Through it all, she felt her father’s eyes on her, a little pitying, a little annoyed at being faced with a problem for
which he knew no answer. He loved Scarlett, but it made him uncomfortable to have her forcing her childish problems on him for
a solution. Ellen knew all the answers. Scarlett should have taken her troubles to her.
“Is it a spectacle you’ve been making of yourself—of all of us?” he bawled, his voice rising as always in moments of excitement. “Have you been running after a man who’s not in love with you, when you could have any of the bucks in the County?” Anger and hurt pride drove out some of the pain. “I haven’t been running after him. It—it just surprised me.” “It’s lying you are!” said Gerald, and then, peering at her stricken face, he added in a burst of kindliness: “I’m sorry, daughter. But after all, you are nothing but a child and there’s lots of other beaux.” “Mother was only fifteen when she married you, and I’m sixteen,” said Scarlett, her voice muffled. “Your mother was different,” said Gerald. “She was never flighty like you. Now come, daughter, cheer up, and I’ll take you to Charleston next week to visit your Aunt Eulalie and, what with all the hullabaloo they are having over there about Fort Sumter, you’ll be forgetting about Ashley in a week.” “He thinks I’m a child,” thought Scarlett, grief and anger choking utterance, “and he’s only got to dangle a new
toy and I’ll forget my bumps.”
“Now, don’t be jerking your chin at me,” warned Gerald. “If you had any sense you’d have married Stuart or Brent Tarleton long
ago. Think it over, daughter. Marry one of the twins and then the plantations will run together and Jim Tarleton and I will build you a fine house, right where they join, in that big pine grove and—”
“Will you stop treating me like a child!” cried Scarlett. “I don’t want to go to Charleston or have a house or marry the twins. I only want—” She caught herself but not in time.
Gerald’s voice was strangely quiet and he spoke slowly as if
drawing his words from a store of thought seldom used.
“It’s only Ashley you’re wanting, and you’ll not be having him. And if
he wanted to marry you, ‘twould be with misgivings that I’d say Yes, for
an the fine friendship that’s between me and John Wilkes.” And, seeing her startled look, he continued: “I want my girl to be happy and you wouldn’t be happy with him.”
“Oh, I would! I would!” “That you would not, daughter. Only when like marries like can there be any happiness.” Scarlett had a sudden treacherous desire to cry out, “But you’ve been happy, and you and Mother aren’t alike,” but she repressed it, fearing that he would box her ears for
her impertinence.
“Our people and the Wilkes are different,” he went on slowly, fumbling for
words. “The Wilkes are different from any of our neighbors—different from any family I ever knew. They are queer folk, and it’s best that they marry their cousins and keep their queerness to themselves.”
“Why, Pa, Ashley is not—” “Hold your whist, Puss! I said nothing against the lad, for
I like him. And when I say queer, it’s not crazy I’m meaning. He’s not queer like the Calverts who’d gamble everything they have on a horse, or the Tarletons who turn out a drunkard or two in every litter, or the Fontaines who are hot-headed little brutes and after murdering a man for
a fancied slight. That kind of queerness is easy to understand, for
sure, and but for
the grace of God Gerald O’Hara would be having all those faults! And I don’t mean that Ashley would run off with another woman, if
you were his wife, or beat you. You’d be happier if
he did, for
at least you’d be understanding that. But he’s queer in other ways, and there’s no understanding him at all. I like him, but it’s neither heads nor tails I can make of most he says. Now, Puss, tell me true, do
you understand his folderol about books and poetry and music and oil paintings and such foolishness?”
“Oh, Pa,” cried Scarlett impatiently, “if
I married him, I’d change all that!”
“Oh, you would, would you now?” Said Gerald testily, shooting a sharp look at her. “Then it’s little enough you are knowing of any man living, let alone Ashley. No wife has ever changed a husband one whit, and don’t you be forgetting that. And as for
changing a Wilkes—God’s nightgown, daughter! The whole family is that way, and they’ve always been that way. And probably always will. I tell you they’re born queer. Look at the way they go tearing up to New York and Boston to hear operas and see oil paintings. And ordering French and German books by the crate from the Yankees! And there they sit reading and dreaming the dear God knows what, when they’d be better spending their time
hunting and playing poker as proper men should.”
“There’s nobody in the County sits a horse better than Ashley,” said Scarlett, furious at the slur of effeminacy flung on Ashley, “nobody except maybe his father. And as for
poker, didn’t Ashley take two hundred dollars away from you just last week in Jonesboro?”
“The Calvert boys have been blabbing again,” Gerald said resignedly, “else
you’d not be knowing the amount. Ashley can ride with the best and play poker with the best—that’s me, Puss! And I’m not denying that when he sets out to drink he can put even the Tarletons under the table. He can do
all those things, but his heart’s not in it. That’s why I say he’s queer.”
Scarlett was silent and her heart sank. She could think of no defense for
this last, for
she knew Gerald was right. Ashley’s heart was in none of the pleasant things he did so well. He was never more than politely interested in any of the things that vitally interested every one else.
Rightly interpreting her silence, Gerald patted her arm and said triumphantly: “There now, Scarlett! You admit ‘tis true. What would you be doing with a husband like Ashley? ‘Tis moonstruck they all are, all the Wilkes.” And then, in a wheedling tone: “When I was mentioning the Tarletons the while
ago, I wasn’t pushing them. They’re fine lads, but if
it’s Cade Calvert you’re setting your cap after, why, ‘tis the same with me. The Calverts are good folk, all of them, for
all the old man marrying a Yankee. And when I’m gone—Whist, darlin’, listen to me! I’ll leave Tara to you and Cade—”
“I wouldn’t have Cade on a silver tray,” cried Scarlett in fury. “And I wish you’d quit pushing him at me! I don’t want Tara or any old plantation. Plantations don’t amount to anything when—” She was going to say “when you haven’t the man you want,” but Gerald, incensed by the cavalier way in which she treated his proffered gift, the thing which, next to Ellen, he loved best in the whole world uttered a roar. “Do you stand there, Scarlett O’Hara, and tell me that Tara—that land—doesn’t amount to anything?” Scarlett nodded obstinately. Her heart was too sore to care whether or not she put her father in a temper. “Land is the only thing in the world that amounts to anything,” he shouted, his thick, short
arms making wide gestures of indignation, “for
‘tis the only thing in this
world that lasts, and don’t you be forgetting it! ‘Tis the only thing worth working for, worth fighting for—worth dying for.”
“Oh, Pa,” she said disgustedly, “you talk like an Irishman!” “Have I ever been ashamed of it? No, ‘tis proud I am. And don’t be forgetting that you are half Irish, Miss! And to anyone with a drop of Irish blood in them the land they live on is like their mother. ‘Tis ashamed of you I am this
minute. I offer you the most beautiful land in the world—saving County Meath in the Old Country—and what do
you do? You sniff!”
Gerald had begun to work himself up into a pleasurable shouting rage when something in Scarlett’s woebegone face stopped him. “But there, you’re young. ‘Twill come to you, this
love of land. There’s no getting away from it, if
you’re Irish. You’re just a child and bothered about your beaux. When you’re older, you’ll be seeing how ‘tis. ... Now, do
you be making up your mind about Cade or the twins or one of Evan Munroe’s young bucks, and see how fine I turn you out!”
“Oh, Pa!” By this
time, Gerald was thoroughly tired of the conversation and thoroughly annoyed that the problem should be upon his shoulders. He felt aggrieved, moreover, that Scarlett should still look desolate after being offered the best of the County boys and Tara, too. Gerald liked his gifts to be received with clapping of hands and kisses.
“Now, none of your pouts, Miss. It doesn’t matter who you marry, as long
as he thinks like you and is a gentleman and a Southerner and prideful. For a woman, love comes after marriage.”
“Oh, Pa, that’s such an Old Country notion!” “And a good notion it is! All this
American business of running around marrying for
love, like servants, like Yankees! The best marriages are when the parents choose for
the girl. For how can a silly piece like yourself tell a good man from a scoundrel? Now, look at the Wilkes. What’s kept them prideful and strong all these generations? Why, marrying the likes of themselves, marrying the cousins their family always expects them to marry.”
“Oh,” cried Scarlett, fresh pain striking her as Gerald’s words brought home the terrible inevitability of the truth. Gerald looked at her bowed head and shuffled his feet uneasily. “It’s not crying you are?” he questioned, fumbling clumsily at her chin, trying to turn her face upward, his own face furrowed with pity. “No,” she cried vehemently, jerking away. “It’s lying you are, and I’m proud of it. I’m glad there’s pride in you, Puss. And I want to see pride in you tomorrow at the barbecue. I’ll not be having the County gossiping and laughing at you for
mooning your heart out about a man who never gave you a thought beyond friendship.”
“He did give me a thought,” thought Scarlett, sorrowfully in her heart. “Oh, a lot of thoughts! I know he did. I could tell. If I’d just had a little longer, I know I could have made him say—Oh, if
it only wasn’t that the Wilkes always feel that they have to marry their cousins!”
Gerald took her arm and passed it through his. “We’ll be going in to supper now, and all this
is between us. I’ll not be worrying your mother with this—nor do
you do
it either. Blow your nose, daughter.”
Scarlett blew her nose on her torn handkerchief, and they started up the dark drive arm in arm, the horse following slowly. Near the house, Scarlett was at the point of speaking again when she saw her mother in the dim shadows of the porch. She had on her bonnet, shawl and mittens, and behind her was Mammy, her face like a thundercloud, holding in her hand the black leather bag in which Ellen O’Hara always carried the bandages and medicines she used in doctoring the slaves. Mammy’s lips were large and pendulous and, when indignant, she could push out her lower one to twice its normal length. It was pushed out now, and Scarlett knew that Mammy was seething over something of which she did not approve. “Mr. O’Hara,” called Ellen as she saw the two coming up the driveway—Ellen belonged to a generation that was formal even after seventeen years of wedlock and the bearing of six children—”Mr. O’Hara, there is illness at the Slattery house. Emmie’s baby has been born and is dying and must be baptized. I am going there with Mammy to see what I can do.”
Her voice was raised questioningly, as though she hung on Gerald’s assent to her plan, a mere formality but one dear to the heart of Gerald. “In the name of God!” blustered Gerald. “Why should those white trash take you away just at your supper hour and just when I’m wanting to tell you about the war talk that’s going on in Atlanta! Go, Mrs. O’Hara. You’d not rest easy on your pillow the night if
there was trouble abroad and you not there to help.”
“She doan never git no res’ on her piller fer hoppin’ up at night time
nursin’ niggers an po’ w’ite trash dat could ten’ to deyseff,” grumbled Mammy in a monotone as she went down the stairs toward the carriage which was waiting in the side drive.
“Take my place at the table, dear,” said Ellen, patting Scarlett’s cheek softly with a mittened hand. In spite of her choked-back tears, Scarlett thrilled to the never-failing magic of her mother’s touch, to the faint fragrance of lemon verbena sachet that came from her rustling silk dress. To Scarlett, there was something breath-taking about Ellen O’Hara, a miracle that lived in the house with her and awed her and charmed and soothed her. Gerald helped his wife into the carriage and gave orders to the coachman to drive carefully. Toby, who had handled Gerald’s horses for
twenty years, pushed out his lips in mute indignation at being told how to conduct his own business. Driving off, with Mammy beside him, each was a perfect picture of pouting African disapproval.
“If I didn’t do
so much for
those trashy Slatterys that they’d have to pay money for
elsewhere,” fumed Gerald, “they’d be willing to sell me their miserable few acres of swamp bottom, and the County would be well rid of them.” Then, brightening, in anticipation of one of his practical jokes: “Come daughter, let’s go tell Pork that instead of buying Dilcey, I’ve sold him to John Wilkes.”
He tossed the reins of his horse to a small pickaninny standing near and started up the steps. He had already forgotten Scarlett’s heartbreak and his mind was only on plaguing his valet. Scarlett slowly climbed the steps after him, her feet leaden. She thought that, after all, a mating between herself and Ashley could be no queerer than that of her father and Ellen Robillard O’Hara. As always, she wondered how her loud, insensitive father had managed to marry a woman like her mother, for
never were two people further apart in birth, breeding and habits of mind.
CHAPTER III ELLEN O’HARA was thirty-two years old, and, according to the standards of her day, she was a middle-aged woman, one who had borne six children and buried three. She was a tall woman, standing a head higher than her fiery little husband, but she moved with such quiet grace in her swaying hoops that the height attracted no attention to itself. Her neck, rising from the black taffeta sheath of her basque, was creamy-skinned, rounded and slender, and it seemed always tilted slightly backward by the weight of her luxuriant hair in its net at the back of her head. From her French mother, whose parents had fled Haiti in the Revolution of 1791, had come her slanting dark eyes, shadowed by inky lashes, and her black hair; and from her father, a soldier of Napoleon, she had her long
straight nose and her square-cut jaw that was softened by the gentle curving of her cheeks. But only from life could Ellen’s face have acquired its look of pride that had no haughtiness, its graciousness, its melancholy and its utter lack of humor.
She would have been a strikingly beautiful woman had there been any glow in her eyes, any responsive warmth in her smile or any spontaneity in her voice that fell with gentle melody on the ears of her family and her servants. She spoke in the soft slurring voice of the coastal Georgian, liquid of vowels, kind to consonants and with the barest trace of French accent. It was a voice never raised in command to a servant or reproof to a child but a voice that was obeyed instantly at Tara, where her husband’s blustering and roaring were quietly disregarded. As far back as Scarlett could remember, her mother had always been the same, her voice soft and sweet whether in praising or in reproving, her manner efficient and unruffled despite the daily emergencies of Gerald’s turbulent household, her spirit always calm and her back unbowed, even in the deaths of her three baby sons. Scarlett had never seen her mother’s back touch the back of any chair on which she sat. Nor had she ever seen her sit down without a bit of needlework in her hands, except at mealtime, while
attending the sick or while
working at the bookkeeping of the plantation. It was delicate embroidery if
company were present, but at other times her hands were occupied with Gerald’s ruffled shirts, the girls’ dresses or garments for
the slaves. Scarlett could not imagine her mother’s hands without her gold thimble or her rustling figure unaccompanied by the small negro girl whose sole function in life was to remove
basting threads and carry the rosewood sewing box from room to room, as Ellen moved about the house superintending the cooking, the cleaning and the wholesale clothes-making for
the plantation.
She had never seen her mother stirred from her austere placidity, nor her personal appointments anything but perfect, no matter what the hour of day or night. When Ellen was dressing for
a ball or for
guests or even to go to Jonesboro for
Court Day, it frequently required two hours, two maids and Mammy to turn her out to her own satisfaction; but her swift toilets in times of emergency were amazing.
Scarlett, whose room lay across the hall from her mother’s, knew from babyhood the soft sound of scurrying bare black feet on the hardwood floor
in the hours of dawn, the urgent tappings on her mother’s door, and the muffled, frightened negro voices that whispered of sickness and birth and death in the long
row of whitewashed cabins in the quarters. As a child, she often had crept to the door and, peeping through the tiniest crack, had seen Ellen emerge from the dark room, where Gerald’s snores were rhythmic and untroubled, into the flickering light of an upheld candle, her medicine case
under her arm, her hair smoothed neatly place, and no button on her basque unlooped.
It had always been so soothing to Scarlett to hear her mother whisper, firmly but compassionately, as she tiptoed down the hall: “Hush, not so loudly. You will wake Mr. O’Hara. They are not sick enough to die.” Yes, it was good to creep back into bed and know that Ellen was abroad in the night and everything was right. In the mornings, after all-night sessions at births and deaths, when old Dr. Fontaine and young Dr. Fontaine were both out on calls and could not be found to help her, Ellen presided at the breakfast table as usual, her dark eyes circled with weariness but her voice and manner revealing none of the strain. There was a steely quality under her stately gentleness that awed the whole household, Gerald as well as the girls, though he would have died rather than admit it. Sometimes when Scarlett tiptoed at night to kiss her tall mother’s cheek, she looked up at the mouth with its too short, too tender upper lip, a mouth too easily hurt by the world, and wondered if
it had ever curved in silly girlish giggling or whispered secrets through long
nights to intimate girl friends. But no, that wasn’t possible. Mother had always been just as she was, a pillar of strength, a fount of wisdom, the one person who knew the answers to everything.
But Scarlett was wrong, for, years before, Ellen Robillard of Savannah had giggled as inexplicably as any fifteen-year-old in that charming coastal city and whispered the long
nights through with friends, exchanging confidences, telling all secrets but one. That was the year when Gerald O’Hara, twenty-eight years older than she, came into her life—the year, too, when youth and her black-eyed cousin, Philippe Robillard, went out of it. For when Philippe, with his snapping eyes and his wild ways, left Savannah forever, he took with him the glow that was in Ellen’s heart and left for
the bandy-legged little Irishman who married her only a gentle shell.
But that was enough for
Gerald, overwhelmed at his unbelievable luck in actually marrying her. And if
anything was gone from her, he never missed it. Shrewd man that he was, he knew that it was no less than a miracle that he, an Irishman with nothing of family and wealth to recommend him, should win the daughter of one of the wealthiest and proudest families on the Coast. For Gerald was a self-made man.
Gerald had come to America from Ireland when he was twenty-one. He had come hastily, as many a better and worse Irishman before and since, with the clothes he had on his back, two shillings above his passage money and a price on his head that he felt was larger than his misdeed warranted. There was no Orangeman this
side of hell worth a hundred pounds to the British government or to the devil himself; but if
the government felt so strongly about the death of an English absentee landlord’s rent agent, it was time
for Gerald O’Hara to be leaving and leaving suddenly. True, he had called the rent agent “a bastard of an Orangeman,” but that, according to Gerald’s way of looking at it, did not give the man any right to insult him by whistling the opening bars of “The Boyne Water.”
The Battle of the Boyne had been fought more than a hundred years before, but, to the O’Haras and their neighbors, it might have been yesterday when their hopes and their dreams, as well as their lands and wealth, went off in the same cloud of dust that enveloped a frightened and fleeing Stuart prince, leaving William of Orange and his hated troops with their orange cockades to cut down the Irish adherents of the Stuarts. For this
and other reasons, Gerald’s family was not inclined to view the fatal outcome of this
quarrel as anything very serious, except for
the fact that it was charged with serious consequences. For years, the O’Haras had been in bad odor with the English constabulary on account of suspected activities against the government, and Gerald was not the first O’Hara to take his foot in his hand and quit Ireland between dawn and morning. His two oldest brothers, James and Andrew, he hardly remembered, save as close-lipped youths who came and went at odd hours of the night on mysterious errands or disappeared for
weeks at a time, to their mother’s gnawing anxiety. They had come to America years before, after the discovery of a small arsenal of rifles buried under the O’Hara pigsty. Now they were successful merchants in Savannah, “though the dear God alone knows where that may be,” as their mother always interpolated when mentioning the two oldest of her male brood, and it was to them that young Gerald was sent.
He left home with his mother’s hasty kiss on his cheek and her fervent Catholic blessing in his ears, and his father’s parting admonition, “Remember who ye are and don’t be taking nothing off no man.” His five tall brothers gave him good-by with admiring but slightly patronizing smiles, for
Gerald was the baby and the little one of a brawny family.
His five brothers and their father stood six feet and over and broad in proportion, but little Gerald, at twenty-one, knew that five feet four and a half inches was as much as the Lord in His wisdom was going to allow him. It was like Gerald that he never wasted regrets on his lack of height and never found it an obstacle to his acquisition of anything he wanted. Rather, it was Gerald’s compact smallness that made him what he was, for
he had learned early that little people must be hardy to survive among large ones. And Gerald was hardy.
His tall brothers were a grim, quiet lot, in whom the family tradition of past glories, lost forever, rankled in unspoken hate and crackled out in bitter humor. Had Gerald been brawny, he would have gone the way of the other O’Haras and moved quietly and darkly among the rebels against the government But Gerald was “loud-mouthed and bullheaded,” as his mother fondly phrased it, hair trigger of temper, quick with his fists and possessed of a chip on his shoulder so large as to be almost visible to the naked
eye. He swaggered among the tall O’Haras like a strutting bantam in a barnyard of giant Cochin roosters, and they loved him, baited him affectionately to hear him roar and hammered on him with their large fists no more than was necessary to keep a baby brother in his proper place.
If the educational equipment which Gerald brought to America was scant, he did not even know it. Nor would he have cared if
he had been told. His mother had taught him to read and to write a clear hand. He was adept at ciphering. And there his book knowledge stopped. The only Latin he knew was the responses of the Mass and the only history the manifold wrongs of Ireland. He knew no poetry save that of Moore and no music except the songs of Ireland that had come down through the years. While he entertained the liveliest respect for
those who had more book learning than he, he never felt his own lack. And what need had he of these things in a new
country where the most ignorant of bogtrotters had made great fortunes? in this
country which asked only that a man be strong and unafraid of work?
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