“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!
With the far-off rumbling of cannon in their ears, the state militia, “Joe Brown’s Pets,” and the Home Guard marched out of Atlanta, to defend the bridges and ferries of the Chattahoochee River at Johnston’s back.
It was a gray, overcast day and, as they marched through Five Points and out the Marietta road, a fine rain began to fall.
The whole town had turned out to see them off and they stood, close packed, under the wooden awnings of the stores on Peachtree Street and tried to cheer.
Scarlett and Maybelle Merriwether Picard had been given permission to leave the hospital and watch the men go out, because Uncle Henry Hamilton and Grandpa Merriwether were in the Home Guard, and they stood with Mrs. Meade, pressed in the crowd, tiptoeing to get a better view.
Scarlett, though filled with the universal Southern desire to believe only the pleasantest and most reassuring things about the progress of the fighting, felt cold as she watched the motley ranks go by.
Surely, things must be in a desperate pass if this rabble of bombproofers, old men and little boys were being called out!
To be sure there were young and able-bodied men in the passing lines, tricked out in the bright uniforms of socially select militia units, plumes waving, sashes dancing.