Now, don’t misunderstand me.
The Wilkes are fine folks in their way, and you know I’m fond of them all, but be frank!
They are overbred and inbred too, aren’t they?
They’ll do fine on a dry track, a fast track, but mark my words, I don’t believe the Wilkes can run on a mud track.
I believe the stamina has been bred out of them, and when the emergency arises I don’t believe they can run against odds.
Dry-weather stock.
Give me a big horse who can run in any weather!
And their intermarrying has made them different from other folks around here.
Always fiddling with the piano or sticking their heads in a book.
I do believe Ashley would rather read than hunt!
Yes, I honestly believe that, Mr. O’Hara!
And just look at the bones on them. Too slender.
They need dams and sires with strength—”
“Ah-ah-hum,” said Gerald, suddenly and guiltily aware that the conversation, a most interesting and entirely proper one to him, would seem quite otherwise to Ellen.
In fact, he knew she would never recover should she learn that her daughters had been exposed to so frank a conversation.
But Mrs. Tarleton was, as usual, deaf to all other ideas when pursuing her favorite topic, breeding, whether it be horses or humans.
“I know what I’m talking about because I had some cousins who married each other and I give you my word their children all turned out as popeyed as bullfrogs, poor things.
And when my family wanted me to marry a second cousin, I bucked like a colt.
I said,
‘No, Ma. Not for me.
My children will all have spavins and heaves.’
Well, Ma fainted when I said that about spavins, but I stood firm and Grandma backed me up.
She knew a lot about horse breeding too, you see, and said I was right.
And she helped me run away with Mr. Tarleton.
And look at my children!
Big and healthy and not a sickly one or a runt among them, though Boyd is only five feet ten.
Now, the Wilkes—”
“Not meaning to change the subject, Ma’m,” broke in Gerald hurriedly, for he had noticed Carreen’s bewildered look and the avid curiosity on Suellen’s face and feared lest they might ask Ellen embarrassing questions which would reveal how inadequate a chaperon he was.
Puss, he was glad to notice, appeared to be thinking of other matters as a lady should.
Betty Tarleton rescued him from his predicament.
“Good Heavens, Ma, do let’s get on!” she cried impatiently.
“This sun is broiling me and I can just hear freckles popping out on my neck.”
“Just a minute, Ma’m, before you go,” said Gerald.
“But what have you decided to do about selling us the horses for the Troop?
War may break any day now and the boys want the matter settled.
It’s a Clayton County troop and it’s Clayton County horses we want for them.
But you, obstinate creature that you are, are still refusing to sell us your fine beasts.”
“Maybe there won’t be any war,” Mrs. Tarleton temporized, her mind diverted completely from the Wilkeses’ odd marriage habits.
“Why, Ma’m, you can’t—”
“Ma,” Betty interrupted again, “can’t you and Mr. O’Hara talk about the horses at Twelve Oaks as well as here?”
“That’s just it, Miss Betty,” said Gerald.
“And I won’t be keeping you but one minute by the clock.
We’ll be getting to Twelve Oaks in a little bit, and every man there, old and young, wanting to know about the horses.
Ah, but it’s breaking me heart to see such a fine pretty lady as your mother so stingy with her beasts!
Now, where’s your patriotism, Mrs. Tarleton?
Does the Confederacy mean nothing to you at all?”
“Ma,” cried small Betsy,
“Randa’s sitting on my dress and I’m getting all wrinkled.”
“Well, push Randa off you, Betsy, and hush.
Now, listen to me, Gerald O’Hara,” she retorted, her eyes beginning to snap.