“There’s no accounting for tastes and I’ve always heard the Irish were partial to pigs—kept them under their beds, in fact. But, Scarlett, you need kissing badly. That’s what’s wrong with you. All your beaux have respected you too much, though God knows why, or they have been too afraid of you to really do right by you. The result is that you are unendurably uppity. You should be kissed and by someone who knows how.”
The conversation was not going the way she wanted it. It never did when she was with him. Always, it was a duel in which she was worsted.
“And I suppose you think you are the proper person?” she asked with sarca**, holding her temper in check with difficulty.
“Oh, yes, if I cared to take the trouble,” he said carelessly. “They say I kiss very well.”
“Oh,” she began, indignant at the slight to her charms. “Why, you …” But her eyes fell in sudden confusion. He was smiling, but in the dark depths of his eyes a tiny light flickered for a brief moment, like a small raw flame.
“Of course, you’ve probably wondered why I never tried to follow up that chaste peck I gave you, the day I brought you that bonnet—”
“I have never—”
“Then you aren’t a nice girl, Scarlett, and I’m sorry to hear it. All really nice girls wonder when men don’t try to kiss them. They know they shouldn’t want them to and they know they must act insulted if they do, but just the same, they wish the men would try. … Well, my dear, take heart Some day, I will kiss you and you will like it. But not now, so I beg you not to be too impatient.”
She knew he was teasing but, as always, his teasing maddened her. There was always too much truth in the things he said. Well, this finished him. If ever, ever he should be so ill bred as to try to take any liberties with her, she would show him.
“Will you kindly turn the horse around, Captain Butler? I wish to go back to the hospital.”
“Do you indeed, my ministering angel? Then lice and slops are preferable to my conversation? Well, far be it from me to keep a pair of willing hands from laboring for Our Glorious Cause.” He turned the horse’s head and they started back toward Five Points.
“As to why I have made no further advances,” he pursued blandly, as though she had not signified that the conversation was at an end, “I’m waiting for you to grow up a little more. You see, it wouldn’t be much fun for me to kiss you now and I’m quite selfish about my pleasures. I never fancied kissing children.”
He smothered a grin, as from the corner of his eye he saw her bosom heave with silent wrath.
“And then, too,” he continued softly, “I was waiting for the memory of the estimable Ashley Wilkes to fade.”
At the mention of Ashley’s name, sudden pain went through her, sudden hot tears stung her lids. Fade? The memory of Ashley would never fade, not if he were dead a thousand years. She thought of Ashley wounded, dying in a far-off Yankee prison, with no blankets over him, with no one who loved him to hold his hand, and she was filled with hate for the well-fed man who sat beside her, jeers just beneath the surface of his drawling voice.
She was too angry to speak and they rode along in silence for some while.
“I understand practically everything about you and Ashley, now,” Rhett resumed. “I began with your inelegant scene at Twelve Oaks and, since then, I’ve picked up many things by keeping my eyes open. What things? Oh, that you still cherish a romantic schoolgirl passion for him which he reciprocates as well as his honorable nature will permit him. And that Mrs. Wilkes knows nothing and that, between the two of you, you’ve done her a pretty trick. I understand practically everything, except one thing that piques my curiosity. Did the honorable Ashley ever jeopardize his immortal soul by kissing you?”
A stony silence and an averted head were his answers.
“Ah, well, so he did kiss you. I suppose it was when he was here on furlough. And now that he’s probably dead you are cherishing it to your heart. But I’m sure you’ll get over it and when you’ve forgotten his kiss, I’ll—”
She turned in fury.
“You go to—Halifax,” she said tensely, her green eyes slits of rage. “And let me out of this carriage before I jump over the wheels. And I don’t ever want to speak to you again.”
He stopped the carriage, but before he could alight and assist her she sprang down. Her hoop caught on the wheel and for a moment the crowd at Five Points had a flashing view of petticoats and pantalets. Then Rhett leaned over and swiftly released it She flounced off without a word, without even a backward look, and he laughed softly and clicked to the horse.
CHAPTER XVIII
FOR THE FIRST TIME since the war began, Atlanta could hear the sound of battle. In the early morning hours before the noises of the town awoke, the cannon at Kennesaw Mountain could be heard faintly, far away, a low dim booming that might have passed for summer thunder. Occasionally it was loud enough to be heard even above the rattle of traffic at noon. People tried not to listen to it, tried to talk, to laugh, to carry on their business, just as though the Yankees were not there, twenty-two miles away, but always ears were strained for the sound. The town wore a preoccupied look, for no matter what occupied their hands, all were listening, listening, their hearts leaping suddenly a hundred times a day. Was the booming louder? Or did they only think it was louder? Would General Johnston hold them this time? Would he?
Panic lay just beneath the surface. Nerves which had been stretched tighter and tighter each day of the retreat began to reach the breaking point. No one spoke of fears. That subject was taboo, but strained nerves found expression in loud criticism of the General. Public feeling was at fever heat. Sherman was at the very doors of Atlanta. Another retreat might bring the Confederates into the town.
Give us a general who won’t retreat! Give us a man who will stand and fight!