Were they not the first to cheer at
“Dixie” and the most rampant seekers, in oratory at least, for Yankee blood?
The full tide of fury against those profiteering on government contracts had not yet risen, and Rhett’s words were taken merely as evidence of his own bad breeding.
He not only affronted the town with insinuations of venality on the part of men in high places and slurs on the courage of the men in the field, but he took pleasure in tricking the dignified citizenry into embarrassing situations.
He could no more resist pricking the conceits, the hypocrisies and the flamboyant patriotism of those about him than a small boy can resist putting a pin into a balloon.
He neatly deflated the pompous and exposed the ignorant and the bigoted, and he did it in such subtle ways, drawing his victims out by his seemingly courteous interest, that they never were quite certain what had happened until they stood exposed as windy, high flown and slightly ridiculous.
During the months when the town accepted him, Scarlett had been under no illusions about him.
She knew that his elaborate gallantries and his florid speeches were all done with his tongue in his cheek.
She knew that he was acting the part of the dashing and patriotic blockade runner simply because it amused him.
Sometimes he seemed to her like the County boys with whom she had grown up, the wild Tarleton twins with their obsession for practical jokes; the devil-inspired Fontaines, teasing, mischievous; the Calverts who would sit up all night planning hoaxes.
But there was a difference, for beneath Rhett’s seeming lightness there was something malicious, almost sinister in its suave brutality.
Though she was thoroughly aware of his insincerity, she much preferred him in the role of the romantic blockader.
For one thing, it made her own situation in associating with him so much easier than it had been at first.
So, she was intensely annoyed when he dropped his masquerade and set out apparently upon a deliberate campaign to alienate Atlanta’s good will.
It annoyed her because it seemed foolish and also because some of the harsh criticism directed at him fell on her.
It was at Mrs. Elsing’s silver musicale for the benefit of the convalescents that Rhett signed his final warrant of ostracism.
That afternoon the Elsing home was crowded with soldiers on leave and men from the hospitals, members of the Home Guard and the militia unit, and matrons, widows and young girls.
Every chair in the house was occupied, and even the long winding stair was packed with guests.
The large cut-glass bowl held at the door by the Elsings’ butler had been emptied twice of its burden of silver coins. That in itself was enough to make the affair a success, for now a dollar in silver was worth sixty dollars in Confederate paper money.
Every girl with any pretense to accomplishments had sung or played the piano, and the tableaux vivants had been greeted with flattering applause.
Scarlett was much pleased with herself, for not only had she and Melanie rendered a touching duet,
“When the Dew Is on the Blossom,” followed as an encore by the more sprightly
“Oh, Lawd, Ladies, Don’t Mind Stephen!” but she had also been chosen to represent the Spirit of the Confederacy in the last tableau.
She had looked most fetching, wearing a modestly draped Greek robe of white cheesecloth girdled with red and blue and holding the Stars and Bars in one hand, while with the other she stretched out to the kneeling Captain Carey Ashburn, of Alabama, the gold-hilted saber which had belonged to Charles and his father.
When her tableau was over, she could not help seeking Rhett’s eyes to see if he had appreciated the pretty picture she made.
With a feeling of exasperation she saw that he was in an argument and probably had not even noticed her.
Scarlett could see by the faces of the group surrounding him that they were infuriated by what he was saying.
She made her way toward them and, in one of those odd silences which sometimes fall on a gathering, she heard Willie Guinan, of the militia outfit, say plainly:
“Do I understand, sir, that you mean the Cause for which our heroes have died is not sacred?”
“If you were run over by a railroad train your death wouldn’t sanctify the railroad company, would it?” asked Rhett and his voice sounded as if he were humbly seeking information.
“Sir,” said Willie, his voice shaking, “if we were not under this roof—”
“I tremble to think what would happen,” said Rhett.
“For, of course, your bravery is too well known.”
Willie went scarlet and all conversation ceased.
Everyone was embarrassed.
Willie was strong and healthy and of military age and yet he wasn’t at the front.
Of course, he was the only boy his mother had and, after all, somebody had to be in the militia to protect the state.
But there were a few irreverent snickers from convalescent officers when Rhett spoke of bravery.
“Oh, why doesn’t he keep his mouth shut!” thought Scarlett indignantly.
“He’s simply spoiling the whole party!”
Dr. Meade’s brows were thunderous.
“Nothing may be sacred to you, young man,” he said, in the voice he always used when making speeches.
“But there are many things sacred to the patriotic men and ladies of the South.
And the freedom of our land from the usurper is one and States’ Rights is another and—”
Rhett looked lazy and his voice had a silky, almost bored, note.
“All wars are sacred,” he said. “To those who have to fight them.
If the people who started wars didn’t make them sacred, who would be foolish enough to fight?
But, no matter what rallying cries the orators give to the idiots who fight, no matter what noble purposes they assign to wars, there is never but one reason for a war.
And that is money.
All wars are in reality money squabbles.