They wanted her for her own self because they loved her.
They were lonely and often frightened at night in the big house, and she was so brave she gave them courage.
She was so charming that she cheered them in their sorrow.
Now that Charles was dead, her place and her son’s place were with his kindred.
Besides, half the house now belonged to her, through Charles’ will.
Last, the Confederacy needed every pair of hands for sewing, knitting, bandage rolling and nursing the wounded.
Charles’ Uncle Henry Hamilton, who lived in bachelor state at the Atlanta Hotel near the depot, also talked seriously to her on this subject.
Uncle Henry was a short, pot-bellied, irascible old gentleman with a pink face, a shock of long silver hair and an utter lack of patience with feminine timidities and vaporings. It was for the latter reason that he was barely on speaking terms with his sister, Miss Pittypat.
From childhood, they had been exact opposites in temperament and they had been further estranged by his objections to the manner in which she had reared Charles-“Making a damn sissy out of a soldier’s son!”
Years before, he had so insulted her that now Miss Pitty never spoke of him except in guarded whispers and with so great reticence that a stranger would have thought the honest old lawyer a murderer, at the least.
The insult had occurred on a day when Pitty wished to draw five hundred dollars from her estate, of which he was trustee, to invest in a non-existent gold mine.
He had refused to permit it and stated heatedly that she had no more sense than a June bug and furthermore it gave him the fidgets to be around her longer than five minutes.
Since that day, she only saw him formally, once a month, when Uncle Peter drove her to his office to get the housekeeping money. After these brief visits, Pitty always took to her bed for the rest of the day with tears and smelling salts.
Melanie and Charles, who were on excellent terms with their uncle, had frequently offered to relieve her of this ordeal, but Pitty always set her babyish mouth firmly and refused.
Henry was her cross and she must bear him.
From this, Charles and Melanie could only infer that she took a profound pleasure in this occasional excitement, the only excitement in her sheltered life.
Uncle Henry liked Scarlett immediately because, he said, he could see that for all her silly affectations she had a few grains of sense.
He was trustee, not only of Pitty’s and Melanie’s estates, but also of that left Scarlett by Charles.
It came to Scarlett as a pleasant surprise that she was now a well-to-do young woman, for Charles had not only left her half of Aunt Pitty’s house but farm lands and town property as well.
And the stores and warehouses along the railroad track near the depot, which were part of her inheritance, had tripled in value since the war began.
It was when Uncle Henry was giving her an account of her property that he broached the matter of her permanent residence in Atlanta.
“When Wade Hampton comes of age, he’s going to be a rich young man,” he said.
“The way Atlanta is growing his property will be ten times more valuable in twenty years, and it’s only right that the boy should be raised where his property is, so he can learn to take care of it—yes, and of Pitty’s and Melanie’s, too.
He’ll be the only man of the Hamilton name left before long, for I won’t be here forever.”
As for Uncle Peter, he took it for granted that Scarlett had come to stay.
It was inconceivable to him that Charles’ only son should be reared where he could not supervise the rearing.
To all these arguments, Scarlett smiled but said nothing, unwilling to commit herself before learning how she would like Atlanta and constant association with her in-laws.
She knew, too, that Gerald and Ellen would have to be won over.
Moreover, now that she was away from Tara, she missed it dreadfully, missed the red fields and the springing green cotton and the sweet twilight silences.
For the first time, she realized dimly what Gerald had meant when he said that the love of the land was in her blood.
So she gracefully evaded, for the time being, a definite answer as to the duration of her visit and slipped easily into the life of the red-brick house at the quiet end of Peachtree Street.
Living with Charles’ blood kin, seeing the home from which he came. Scarlett could now understand a little better the boy who had made her wife, widow and mother in such rapid succession.
It was easy to see why he had been so shy, so unsophisticated, so idealistic.
If Charles had inherited any of the qualities of the stern, fearless, hot-tempered soldier who had been his father, they had been obliterated in childhood by the ladylike atmosphere in which he had been reared.
He had been devoted to the childlike Pitty and closer than brothers usually are to Melanie, and two more sweet, unworldly women could not be found.
Aunt Pittypat had been christened Sarah Jane Hamilton sixty years before, but since the long-past day when her doting father had fastened his nickname upon her, because of her airy, restless, pattering little feet, no one had called her anything else.
In the years that followed that second christening, many changes had taken place in her that made the pet name incongruous.
Of the swiftly scampering child, all that now remained were two tiny feet, inadequate to her weight, and a tendency to prattle happily and aimlessly.
She was stout, pink-cheeked and silver-haired and always a little breathless from too tightly laced stays. She was unable to walk more than a block on the tiny feet which she crammed into too small slippers.
She had a heart which fluttered at any excitement and she pampered it shamelessly, fainting at any provocation.
Everyone knew that her swoons were generally mere ladylike pretenses but they loved her enough to refrain from saying so.
Everyone loved her, spoiled her like a child and refused to take her seriously—everyone except her brother Henry.
She liked gossip better than anything else in the world, even more than she liked the pleasures of the table, and she prattled on for hours about other people’s affairs in a harmless kindly way. She had no memory for names, dates or places and frequently confused the actors in one Atlanta drama with the actors in another, which misled no one for no one was foolish enough to take seriously anything she said.
No one ever told her anything really shocking or scandalous, for her spinster state must be protected even if she was sixty years old, and her friends were in a kindly conspiracy to keep her a sheltered and petted old child.
Melanie was like her aunt in many ways.
She had her shyness, her sudden blushes, her modesty, but she did have common sense—“Of a sort, I’ll admit that,” Scarlett thought grudgingly.
Like Aunt Pitty, Melanie had the face of a sheltered child who had never known anything but simplicity and kindness, truth and love, a child who had never looked upon harshness or evil and would not recognize them if she saw them.
Because she had always been happy, she wanted everyone about her to be happy or, at least, pleased with themselves.
To this end, she always saw the best in everyone and remarked kindly upon it.
There was no servant so stupid that she did not find some redeeming trait of loyalty and kind-heartedness, no girl so ugly and disagreeable that she could not discover grace of form or nobility of character in her, and no man so worthless or so boring that she did not view him in the light of his possibilities rather than his actualities.