飘

　“What　can　we　do？”　she　thought；　wringing　her　hands　in　an　agony　of　helpless　fear。　“What　can　we　do　with　devils　who’d　hang　a　nice　boy　like　Tony　just　for　killing　a　drunken　buck　and　a　scoundrelly　Scalawag　to　protect　his　women　folks？”
　“It　isn’t　to　be　borne！”　Tony　had　cried　and　he　was　right。　It　couldn’t　be　borne。　But　what　could　they　do　except　bear　it；　helpless　as　they　were？　She　fell　to　trembling　and；　for　the　first　time　in　her　life；　she　saw　people　and　events　as　something　apart　from　herself；　saw　clearly　that　Scarlett　O’Hara；　frightened　and　helpless；　was　not　all　that　mattered。　There　were　thousands　of　women　like　her；　all　over　the　South；　who　were　frightened　and　helpless。　And　thousands　of　men；　who　had　laid　down　their　arms　at　Appomattox；　had　taken　them　up　again　and　stood　ready　to　risk　their　necks　on　a　minute’s　notice　to　protect　those　women。
　There　had　been　something　in　Tony’s　face　which　had　been　mirrored　in　Frank’s；　an　expression　she　had　seen　recently　on　the　faces　of　other　men　in　Atlanta；　a　look　she　had　noticed　but　had　not　troubled　to　analyze。　It　was　an　expression　vastly　different　from　the　tired　helplessness　she　had　seen　in　the　faces　of　men　coming　home　from　the　war　after　the　surrender。　Those　men　had　not　cared　about　anything　except　getting　home。　Now　they　were　caring　about　something　again；　numbed　nerves　were　coming　back　to　life　and　the　old　spirit　was　beginning　to　burn。　They　were　caring　again　with　a　cold　ruthless　bitterness。　And；　like　Tony；　they　were　thinking：　“It　isn’t　to　be　borne！”
　She　had　seen　Southern　men；　soft　voiced　and　dangerous　in　the　days　before　the　war；　reckless　and　hard　in　the　last　despairing　days　of　the　fighting。　But　in　the　faces　of　the　two　men　who　stared　at　each　other　across　the　candle　flame　so　short　a　while　ago　there　had　been　something　that　was　different；　something　that　heartened　her　but　frightened　her—fury　which　could　find　no　words；　determination　which　would　stop　at　nothing。
　For　the　first　time；　she　felt　a　kinship　with　the　people　about　her；　felt　one　with　them　in　their　fears；　their　bitterness；　their　determination。　No；　it　wasn’t　to　be　borne！　The　South　was　too　beautiful　a　place　to　be　let　go　without　a　struggle；　too　loved　to　be　trampled　by　Yankees　who　hated　Southerners　enough　to　enjoy　grinding　them　into　the　dirt；　too　dear　a　homeland　to　be　turned　over　to　ignorant　negroes　drunk　with　whisky　and　freedom。
　As　she　thought　of　Tony’s　sudden　entrance　and　swift　exit；　she　felt　herself　akin　to　him；　for　she　remembered　the　old　story　how　her　father　had　left　Ireland；　left　hastily　and　by　night；　after　a　murder　which　was　no　murder　to　him　or　to　his　family。　Gerald’s　blood　was　in　her；　violent　blood。　She　remembered　her　hot　joy　in　shooting　the　marauding　Yankee。　Violent　blood　was　in　them　all；　perilously　close　to　the　surface；　lurking　just　beneath　the　kindly　courteous　exteriors。　All　of　them；　all　the　men　she　knew；　even　the　drowsy…eyed　Ashley　and　fidgety　old　Frank；　were　like　that　underneath—murderous；　violent　if　the　need　arose。　Even　Rhett；　conscienceless　scamp　that　he　was；　had　killed　a　negro　for　being　“uppity　to　a　lady。”
　“Oh；　Frank；　how　long　will　it　be　like　this？”　she　leaped　to　her　feet。
　“As　long　as　the　Yankees　hate　us　so；　Sugar。”
　“Is　there　nothing　anybody　can　do？”
　Frank　passed　a　tired　hand　over　his　wet　beard。　“We　are　doing　things。”
　“What？”
　“Why　talk　of　them　till　we　have　accomplished　something？　It　may　take　years。　Perhaps—perhaps　the　South　will　always　be　like　this。”
　“Oh；　no！”
　“Sugar；　come　to　bed。　You　must　be　chilled。　You　are　shaking。”
　“When　will　it　all　end？”
　“When　we　can　all　vote　again；　Sugar。　When　every　man　who　fought　for　the　South　can　put　a　ballot　in　the　box　for　a　Southerner　and　a　Democrat。”
　“A　ballot？”　she　cried　despairingly。　“What　good’s　a　ballot　when　the　darkies　have　lost　their　minds—when　the　Yankees　have　poisoned　them　against　us？”
　Frank　went　on　to　explain　in　his　patient　manner；　but　the　idea　that　ballots　could　cure　the　trouble　was　too　complicated　for　her　to　follow。　She　was　thinking　gratefully　that　Jonas　Wilkerson　would　never　again　be　a　menace　of　Tara　and　she　was　thinking　about　Tony。
　“Oh；　the　poor　Fontaines！”　she　exclaimed。　“Only　Alex　left　and　so　much　to　do　at　Mimosa。　Why　didn’t　Tony　have　sense　enough　to—to　do　it　at　night　when　no　one　would　know　who　it　was？　A　sight　more　good　he’d　do　helping　with　the　spring　plowing　than　in　Texas。”
　Frank　put　an　arm　about　her。　Usually　he　was　gingerly　when　he　did　this；　as　if　he　anticipated　being　impatiently　shaken　off；　but　tonight　there　was　a　far…off　look　in　his　eyes　and　his　arm　was　firm　about　her　waist。
　“There　are　things　more　important　now　than　plowing；　Sugar。　And　scaring　the　darkies　and　teaching　the　Scalawags　a　lesson　is　one　of　them。　As　long　as　there　are　fine　boys　like　Tony　left；　I　guess　we　won’t　need　to　worry　about　the　South　too　much。　Come　to　bed。”
　“But；　Frank—”
　“If　we　just　stand　together　and　don’t　give　an　inch　to　the　Yankees；　we’ll　win；　some　day。　Don’t　you　bother　your　pretty　head　about　it；　Sugar。　You　let　your　men　folks　worry　about　it　Maybe　it　won’t　come　in　our　time；　but　surely　it　will　come　some　day。　The　Yankees　will　get　tired　of　pestering　us　when　they　see　they　can’t　even　dent　us；　and　then　we’ll　have　a　decent　world　to　live　in　and　raise　our　children　in。”
　She　thought　of　Wade　and　the　secret　she　had　carried　silently　for　some　days。　No；　she　didn’t　want　her　children　raised　in　this　welter　of　hate　and　uncertainty；　of　bitterness　and　violence　lurking　just　below　the　surface；　of　poverty　and　grinding　hardships　and　insecurity。　She　never　wanted　children　of　hers　to　know　what　all　this　was　like。　She　wanted　a　secure　and　well…ordered　world　in　which　she　could　look　forward　and　know　there　was　a　safe　future　ahead　for　them；　a　world　where　her　children　would　know　only　softness　and　warmth　and　good　clothes　and　fine　food。
　Frank　thought　this　could　be　accomplished　by　voting。　Voting？　What　did　votes　matter？　Nice　people　in　the　South　would　never　have　the　vote　again。　There　was　only　one　thing　in　the　world　that　was　a　certain　bulwark　against　any　calamity　which　fate　could　bring；　and　that　was　money。　She　thought　feverishly　that　they　must　have　money；　lots　of　it　to　keep　them　safe　against　disaster。
　Abruptly；　she　told　him　she　was　going　to　have　a　baby。
　
　For　weeks　after　Tony’s　escape；　Aunt　Pitty’s　house　was　subjected　to　repeated　searches　by　parties　of　Yankee　soldiers。　They　invaded　the　house　at　all　hours　and　without　warning。　They　swarmed　through　the　rooms；　asking　questions；　opening　closets；　prodding　clothes　hampers；　peering　under　beds。　The　military　authorities　had　heard　that　Tony　had　been　advised　to　go　to　Miss　Pitty’s　house；　and　they　were　certain　he　was　still　hiding　there　or　somewhere　in　the　neighborhood。
　As　a　result；　Aunt　Pitty　was　chronically　in　what　Uncle　Peter　called　a　“state；”　never　knowing　when　her　bedroom　would　be　entered　by　an　officer　and　a　squad　of　men。　Neither　Frank　nor　Scarlett　had　mentioned　Tony’s　brief　visit；　so　the　old　lady　could　have　revealed　nothing；　even　had　she　been　so　inclined。　She　was　entirely　honest　in　her　fluttery　protestations　that　she　had　seen　Tony　Fontaine　only　once　in　her　life　and　that　was　at　Christmas　time　in　1862。
　“And；”　she　would　add　breathlessly　to　the　Yankee　soldiers；　in　an　effort　to　be　helpful；　“he　was　quite　intoxicated　at　the　time。”
　Scarlett；　sick　and　miserable　in　the　early　stage　of　pregnancy；　alternated　between　a　passionate　hatred　of　the　bluecoats　who　invaded　her　privacy；　frequently　carrying　away　any　little　knick…knack　that　appealed　to　them；　and　an　equally　passionate　fear　that　Tony　might　prove　the　undoing　of　them　all。　The　prisons　were　full　of　people　who　had　been　arrested　for　much　less　reason。　She　knew　that　if　one　iota　of　the　truth　were　proved　against　them；　not　only　she　and　Frank　but　the　innocent　Pitty　as　well　would　go　to　jail。
　For　some　time　there　had　been　an　agitation　in　Washington　to　confiscate　all　“Rebel　property”　to　pay　the　United　States’　war　debt　and　this　agitation　had　kept　Scarlett　in　a　state　of　anguished　apprehension。　Now；　in　addition　to　this；　Atlanta　was　full　of　wild　rumors　about　the　confiscation　of　property　of　offenders　against　military　law；　and　Scarlett　quaked　lest　she　and　Frank　lose　not　only　their　freedom　but　the　house；　the　store　and　the　mill。　And　even　if　their　property　were　not　appropriated　by　the　military；　it　would　be　as　good　as　lost　if　she　and　Frank　went　to　jail；　for　who　would　look　after　their　business　in　their　absence？
　She　hated　Tony　for　bringing　such　trouble　upon　them。　How　could　he　have　done　such　a　thing　to　friends？　And　how　could　Ashley　have　sent　Tony　to　them？　Never　again　would　she　give　aid　to　anyone　if　it　meant　having　the　Yankees　come　down　on　her　like　a　swarm　of　hornets。　No；　she　would　bar　the　door　against　anyone　needing　help。　Except；　of　course；　Ashley。　For　weeks　after　Tony’s　brief　visit　she　woke　from　uneasy　dreams　at　any　sound　in　the　road　outside；　fearing　it　might　be　Ashley　trying　to　make　his　escape；　fleeing　to　Texas　because　of　the　aid　he　had　given　Tony。　She　did　not　know　how　matters　stood　with　him；　for　they　did　not　dare　write　to　Tara　about　Tony’s　midnight　visit。　Their　letters　might　be　intercepted　by　the　Yankees　and　bring　trouble　upon　the　plantation　as　well。　But；　when　weeks　went　by　and　they　heard　no　bad　news；　they　knew　that　Ashley　had　somehow　come　clear。　And　final