But Mrs. Merriwether was on night duty at the hospital, Mrs. Meade was at home making a feast for Phil, who was in from the front lines, and Melanie was asleep.
There was not even the hope of a chance caller.
Visitors had fallen off to nothing this last week, for every man who could walk was in the rifle pits or chasing the Yankees about the countryside near Jonesboro.
It was not often that she was alone like this and she did not like it.
When she was alone she had to think and, these days, thoughts were not so pleasant.
Like everyone else, she had fallen into the habit of thinking of the past, the dead.
Tonight when Atlanta was so quiet, she could close her eyes and imagine she was back in the rural stillness of Tara and that life was unchanged, unchanging.
But she knew that life in the County would never be the same again.
She thought of the four Tarletons, the red-haired twins and Tom and Boyd, and a passionate sadness caught at her throat.
Why, either Stu or Brent might have been her husband.
But now, when the war was over and she went back to Tara to live, she would never again hear their wild halloos as they dashed up the avenue of cedars.
And Raiford Calvert, who danced so divinely, would never again choose her to be his partner.
And the Munroe boys and little Joe Fontaine and—
“Oh, Ashley!” she sobbed, dropping her head into her hands.
“I’ll never get used to you being gone!”
She heard the front gate click and she hastily raised her head and dashed her hand across her wet eyes.
She rose and saw it was Rhett Butler coming up the walk, carrying his wide Panama hat in his hand.
She had not seen him since the day when she had alighted from his carriage so precipitously at Five Points.
On that occasion, she had expressed the desire never to lay eyes on him again.
But she was so glad now to have someone to talk to, someone to divert her thoughts from Ashley, that she hastily put the memory from her mind.
Evidently he had forgotten the contretemps, or pretended to have forgotten it, for he settled himself on the top step at her feet without mention of their late difference.
“So you didn’t refugee to Macon!
I heard that Miss Pitty had retreated and, of course, I thought you had gone too.
So, when I saw your light I came here to investigate.
Why did you stay?”
“To keep Melanie company.
You see, she—well, she can’t refugee just now.”
“Thunderation,” he said, and in the lamplight she saw that he was frowning.
“You don’t mean to tell me Mrs. Wilkes is still here?
I never heard of such idiocy.
It’s quite dangerous for her in her condition.”
Scarlett was silent, embarrassed, for Melanie’s condition was not a subject she could discuss with a man.
She was embarrassed, too, that Rhett should know it was dangerous for Melanie.
Such knowledge sat ill upon a bachelor.
“It’s quite ungallant of you not to think that I might get hurt too,” she said tartly.
His eyes flickered with amusement.
“I’d back you against the Yankees any day.”
“I’m not sure that that’s a compliment,” she said uncertainly.
“It isn’t,” he answered.
“When will you stop looking for compliments in men’s lightest utterances?”
“When I’m on my deathbed,” she replied and smiled, thinking that there would always be men to compliment her, even if Rhett never did.
“Vanity, vanity,” he said.
“At least, you are frank about it.”
He opened his cigar case, extracted a black cigar and held it to his nose for a moment.
A match flared, he leaned back against a post and, clasping his hands about his knees, smoked a while in silence.
Scarlett resumed her rocking and the still darkness of the warm night closed about them.
The mockingbird, which nested in the tangle of roses and honeysuckle, roused from slumber and gave one timid, liquid note.
Then, as if thinking better of the matter, it was silent again. From the shadow of the porch, Rhett suddenly laughed, a low, soft laugh.
“So you stayed with Mrs. Wilkes!
This is the strangest situation I ever encountered!”