飘

s　hands　plucking　at　her　skirts。　And　at　the　end　of　this　road；　there　was　nothing—nothing　but　Scarlett　O’Hara　Hamilton；　nineteen　years　old；　a　widow　with　a　little　child。
　What　would　she　do　with　all　of　this？　Aunt　Pitty　and　the　Burrs　in　Macon　could　take　Melanie　and　her　baby。　If　the　girls　recovered；　Ellen’s　family　would　have　to　take　them；　whether　they　liked　it　or　not。　And　she　and　Gerald　could　turn　to　Uncle　James　and　Andrew。
　She　looked　at　the　thin　forms；　tossing　before　her；　the　sheets　about　them　moist　and　dark　from　dripping　water。　She　did　not　like　Suellen。　She　saw　it　now　with　a　sudden　clarity。　She　had　never　liked　her。　She　did　not　especially　love　Carreen—she　could　not　love　anyone　who　was　weak。　But　they　were　of　her　blood；　part　of　Tara。　No；　she　could　not　let　them　live　out　their　lives　in　their　aunts’　homes　as　poor　relations。　An　O’Hara　a　poor　relation；　living　on　charity　bread　and　sufferance！　Oh；　never　that！
　Was　there　no　escape　from　this　dead　end？　Her　tired　brain　moved　so　slowly。　She　raised　her　hands　to　her　head　as　wearily　as　if　the　air　were　water　against　which　her　arms　struggled。　She　took　the　gourd　from　between　the　glass　and　bottle　and　looked　in　it。　There　was　some　whisky　left　in　the　bottom；　how　much　she　could　not　tell　in　the　uncertain　light。　Strange　that　the　sharp　smell　did　not　offend　her　nostrils　now。　She　drank　slowly　but　this　time　the　liquid　did　not　burn；　only　a　dull　warmth　followed。
　She　set　down　the　empty　gourd　and　looked　about　her。　This　was　all　a　dream；　this　smoke…filled　dim　room；　the　scrawny　girls；　Mammy　shapeless　and　huge　crouching　beside　the　bed；　Dilcey　a　still　bronze　image　with　the　sleeping　pink　morsel　against　her　dark　breast—all　a　dream　from　which　she　would　awake；　to　smell　bacon　frying　in　the　kitchen；　hear　the　throaty　laughter　of　the　negroes　and　the　creaking　of　wagons　fieldward　bound；　and　Ellen’s　gentle　insistent　hand　upon　her。
　Then　she　discovered　she　was　in　her　own　room；　on　her　own　bed；　faint　moonlight　pricking　the　darkness；　and　Mammy　and　Dilcey　were　undressing　her。　The　torturing　stays　no　longer　pinched　her　waist　and　she　could　breathe　deeply　and　quietly　to　the　bottom　of　her　lungs　and　her　abdomen。　She　felt　her　stockings　being　stripped　gently　from　her　and　heard　Mammy　murmuring　indistinguishable　comforting　sounds　as　she　bathed　her　blistered　feet。　How　cool　the　water　was；　how　good　to　lie　here　in　softness；　like　a　child。　She　sighed　and　relaxed　and　after　a　time　which　might　have　been　a　year　or　a　second；　she　was　alone　and　the　room　was　brighter　as　the　rays　of　the　moon　streamed　in　across　the　bed。
　She　did　not　know　she　was　drunk；　drunk　with　fatigue　and　whisky。　She　only　knew　she　had　left　her　tired　body　and　floated　somewhere　above　it　where　there　was　no　pain　and　weariness　and　her　brain　saw　things　with　an　inhuman　clarity。
　She　was　seeing　things　with　new　eyes　for；　somewhere　along　the　long　road　to　Tara；　she　had　left　her　girlhood　behind　her。　She　was　no　longer　plastic　clay；　yielding　imprint　to　each　new　experience。　The　clay　had　hardened；　some　time　in　this　indeterminate　day　which　had　lasted　a　thousand　years。　Tonight　was　the　last　time　she　would　ever　be　ministered　to　as　a　child。　She　was　a　woman　now　and　youth　was　gone。
　No；　she　could　not；　would　not；　turn　to　Gerald’s　or　Ellen’s　families。　The　O’Haras　did　not　take　charity。　The　O’Haras　looked　after　their　own。　Her　burdens　were　her　own　and　burdens　were　for　shoulders　strong　enough　to　bear　them。　She　thought　without　surprise；　looking　down　from　her　height；　that　her　shoulders　were　strong　enough　to　bear　anything　now；　having　borne　the　worst　that　could　ever　happen　to　her。　She　could　not　desert　Tara；　she　belonged　to　the　red　acres　far　more　than　they　could　ever　belong　to　her。　Her　roots　went　deep　into　the　blood…colored　soil　and　sucked　up　life；　as　did　the　cotton。　She　would　stay　at　Tara　and　keep　it；　somehow；　keep　her　father　and　her　sisters；　Melanie　and　Ashley’s　child；　the　negroes。　Tomorrow—oh；　tomorrow！　Tomorrow　she　would　fit　the　yoke　about　her　neck。　Tomorrow　there　would　be　so　many　things　to　do。　Go　to　Twelve　Oaks　and　the　Macintosh　place　and　see　if　anything　was　left　in　the　deserted　gardens；　go　to　the　river　swamps　and　beat　them　for　straying　hogs　and　chickens；　go　to　Jonesboro　and　Lovejoy　with　Ellen’s　jewelry—there　must　be　someone　left　there　who　would　sell　something　to　eat。　Tomorrow—tomorrow—her　brain　ticked　slowly　and　more　slowly；　like　a　clock　running　down；　but　the　clarity　of　vision　persisted。
　Of　a　sudden；　the　oft…told　family　tales　to　which　she　had　listened　since　babyhood；　listened　half…bored；　impatient　and　but　partly　comprehending；　were　crystal　clear。　Gerald；　penniless；　had　raised　Tara；　Ellen　had　risen　above　some　mysterious　sorrow；　Grandfather　Robillard。　surviving　the　wreck　of　Napoleon’s　throne；　had　founded　his　fortunes　anew　on　the　fertile　Georgia　coast；　Great…grandfather　Prudhomme　had　carved　a　small　kingdom　out　of　the　dark　jungles　of　Haiti；　lost　it；　and　lived　to　see　his　name　honored　in　Savannah。　There　were　the　Scarletts　who　had　fought　with　the　Irish　Volunteers　for　a　free　Ireland　and　been　hanged　for　their　pains　and　the　O’Haras　who　died　at　the　Boyne；　battling　to　the　end　for　what　was　theirs。
　All　had　suffered　crushing　misfortunes　and　had　not　been　crushed。　They　had　not　been　broken　by　the　crash　of　empires；　the　machetes　of　revolting　slaves；　war；　rebellion；　proscription；　confiscation。　Malign　fate　had　broken　their　necks；　perhaps；　but　never　their　hearts。　They　had　not　whined；　they　had　fought。　And　when　they　died；　they　died　spent　but　unquenched。　All　of　those　shadowy　folks　whose　blood　flowed　in　her　veins　seemed　to　move　quietly　in　the　moonlit　room。　And　Scarlett　was　not　surprised　to　see　them；　these　kinsmen　who　had　taken　the　worst　that　fate　could　send　and　hammered　it　into　the　best。　Tara　was　her　fate；　her　fight；　and　she　must　conquer　it。
　She　turned　drowsily　on　her　side；　a　slow　creeping　blackness　enveloping　her　mind。　Were　they　really　there；　whispering　wordless　encouragement　to　her；　or　was　this　part　of　her　dream？
　“Whether　you　are　there　or　not；”　she　murmured　sleepily；　“good　night—and　thank　you。”
　
　CHAPTER　XXV
　THE　NEXT　MORNING　Scarlett’s　body　was　so　stiff　and　sore　from　the　long　miles　of　walking　and　jolting　in　the　wagon　that　every　movement　was　agony。　Her　face　was　crimson　with　sunburn　and　her　blistered　palms　raw。　Her　tongue　was　furred　and　her　throat　parched　as　if　flames　had　scorched　it　and　no　amount　of　water　could　assuage　her　thirst。　Her　head　felt　swollen　and　she　winced　even　when　she　turned　her　eyes。　A　queasiness　of　the　stomach　reminiscent　of　the　early　days　of　her　pregnancy　made　the　smoking　yams　on　the　breakfast　table　unendurable；　even　to　the　smell。　Gerald　could　have　told　her　she　was　suffering　the　normal　aftermath　of　her　first　experience　with　hard　drinking　but　Gerald　noticed　nothing。　He　sat　at　the　head　of　the　table；　a　gray　old　man　with　absent；　faded　eyes　fastened　on　the　door　and　head　cocked　slightly　to　hear　the　rustle　of　Ellen’s　petticoats；　to　smell　the　lemon　verbena　sachet。
　As　Scarlett　sat　down；　he　mumbled：　“We　will　wait　for　Mrs。　O’Hara。　She　is　late。”　She　raised　an　aching　head；　looked　at　him　with　startled　incredulity　and　met　the　pleading　eyes　of　Mammy；　who　stood　behind　Gerald’s　chair。　She　rose　unsteadily；　her　hand　at　her　throat　and　looked　down　at　her　father　in　the　morning　sunlight。　He　peered　up　at　her　vaguely　and　she　saw　that　his　hands　were　shaking；　that　his　head　trembled　a　little。
　Until　this　moment　she　had　not　realized　how　much　she　had　counted　on　Gerald　to　take　command；　to　tell　her　what　she　must　do；　and　now—　Why；　last　night　he　had　seemed　almost　himself。　There　had　been　none　of　his　usual　bluster　and　vitality；　but　at　least　he　had　told　a　connected　story　and　now—now；　he　did　not　even　remember　Ellen　was　dead。　The　combined　shock　of　the　coming　of　the　Yankees　and　her　death　had　stunned　him。　She　started　to　speak；　but　Mammy　shook　her　head　vehemently　and　raising　her　apron　dabbed　at　her　red　eyes。
　“Oh；　can　Pa　have　lost　his　mind？”　thought　Scarlett　and　her　throbbing　head　felt　as　if　it　would　crack　with　this　added　strain。　“No；　no。　He’s　just　dazed　by　it　all。　Ifs　like　he　was　sick。　He’ll　get　over　it。　He　must　get　over　it。　What　will　I　do　if　he　doesn’t？—I　won’t　think　about　it　now。　I　won’t　think　of　him　or　Mother　or　any　of　these　awful　things　now。　No；　not　till　I　can　stand　it。　There　are　too　many　other　things　to　think　about—things　that　can　be　helped　without　my　thinking　of　those　I　can’t　help。”
　She　left　the　dining　room　without　eating；　and　went　out　onto　the　back　porch　where　she　found　Pork；　barefooted　and　in　the　ragged　remains　of　his　best　livery；　sitting　on　the　steps　cracking　peanuts。　Her　head　was　hammering　and　throbbing　and　the　bright　sunlight　stabbed　into　her　eyes。　Merely　holding　herself　erect　required　an　effort　of　will　power　and　she　talked　as　briefly　as　possible；　dispensing　with　the　usual　forms　of　courtesy　her　mother　had　always　taught　her　to　use　with　negroes。
　She　began　asking　questions　so　brusquely　and　giving　orders　so　decisively　Pork’s　eyebrows　went　up　in　mystification。　Miss　Ellen　didn’t　never　talk　so　short　to　nobody；　not　even　when　she　caught　them　stealing　pullets　and　watermelons。　She　asked　again　about　the　fields；　the　gardens；　the　stock；　and　her　green　eyes　had　a　hard　bright　glaze　which　Pork　had　never　seen　in　them　before。
　“Yas’m；　dat　hawse　daid；　lyin’　dar　whar　Ah　tie　him　wid　his　nose　in