SCARLETT sat in the window of her bedroom that midsummer morning and disconsolatelywatched the wagons and carriages full of girls, soldiers and chaperons ride gaily out Peachtreeroad in search of woodland decorations for the bazaar which was to be held that evening for thebenefit of the hospitals. The red road lay checkered in shade and sun glare beneath the over-arching trees and the many hooves kicked up little red clouds of dust. One wagon, ahead of theothers, bore four stout negroes with axes to cut evergreens and drag down the vines, and the backof this wagon was piled high with napkin-covered hampers, split-oak baskets of lunch and a dozenwatermelons. Two of the black bucks were equipped with banjo and harmonica and they wererendering a spirited version of “If You Want to Have a Good Time, Jine the Cavalry.” Behind themstreamed the merry cavalcade, girls cool in flowered cotton dresses, with light shawls, bonnets andmitts to protect their skins and little parasols held over their heads; elderly ladies placid andsmiling amid the laughter and carriage-to-carriage calls and jokes; convalescents from thehospitals wedged in between stout chaperons and slender girls who made great fuss and to-do overthem; officers on horseback idling at snail’s pace beside the carriages—wheels creaking, spursjingling, gold braid gleaming, parasols bobbing, fans swishing, negroes singing. Everybody wasriding out Peachtree road to gather greenery and have a picnic and melon cutting. Everybody,thought Scarlett, morosely, except me.
They all waved and called to her as they went by and she tried to respond with a good grace, butit was difficult. A hard little pain had started in her heart and was traveling slowly up toward herthroat where it would become a lump and the lump would soon become tears. Everybody wasgoing to the picnic except her. And everybody was going to the bazaar and the ball tonight excepther. That is everybody except her and Pittypat and Melly and the other unfortunates in town whowere in mourning. But Melly and Pittypat did not seem to mind. It had not even occurred to themto want to go. It had occurred to Scarlett. And she did want to go, tremendously.
It simply wasn’t fair. She had worked twice as hard as any girl in town, getting things ready forthe bazaar. She had knitted socks and baby caps and afghans and mufflers and tatted yards of laceand painted china hair receivers and mustache cups. And she had embroidered half a dozen sofa-pillow cases with the Confederate flag on them. (The stars were a bit lopsided, to be sure, some ofthem being almost round and others having six or even seven points, but the effect was good.)Yesterday she had worked until she was worn out in the dusty old bam of an Armory drapingyellow and pink and green cheesecloth on the booths that lined the walls. Under the supervision ofthe Ladies’ Hospital Committee, this was plain hard work and no fun at all. It was never fun to bearound Mrs. Merriwether and Mrs. Elsing and Mrs. Whiting and have them boss you like you wereone of the darkies. And have to listen to them brag about how popular their daughters were. And,worst of all, she had burned two blisters on her fingers helping Pittypat and Cookie make layercakes for raffling.
And now, having worked like a field hand, she had to retire decorously when the fun was justbeginning. Oh, it wasn’t fair that she should have a dead husband and a baby yelling in the nextroom and be out of everything that was pleasant. Just a little over a year ago, she was dancing andwearing bright clothes instead of this dark mourning and was practically engaged to three boys.
She was only seventeen now and there was still a lot of dancing left in her feet. Oh, it wasn’t fair!
Life was going past her, down a hot shady summer road, life with gray uniforms and jingling spurs and flowered organdie dresses and banjos playing. She tried not to smile and wave too enthusiasticallyto the men she knew best, the ones she’d nursed in the hospital, but it was hard tosubdue her dimples, hard to look as though her heart were in the grave—when it wasn’t.
Her bowing and waving were abruptly halted when Pittypat entered the room, panting as usualfrom climbing the stairs, and jerked her away from the window unceremoniously.
“Have you lost your mind, honey, waving at men out of your bedroom window? I declare,Scarlett, I’m shocked! What would your mother say?”
“Well, they didn’t know it was my bedroom.”
“But they’d suspect it was your bedroom and that’s just as bad. Honey, you mustn’t do thingslike that Everybody will be talking about you and saying you are fast—and anyway, Mrs.
Merriwether knew it was your bedroom.”
“And I suppose she’ll tell all the boys, the old cat.”
“Honey, hush! Dolly Merriwether’s my best friend.”
“Well, she’s a cat just the same—oh, I’m sorry, Auntie, don’t cry! I forgot it was my bedroomwindow. I won’t do it again—I—I just wanted to see them go by. I wish I was going.”
“Honey!”
“Well, I do. I’m so tired of sitting at home.”
“Scarlett, promise me you won’t say things like that. People would talk so. They’d say youdidn’t have the proper respect for poor Charlie—”
“Oh, Auntie, don’t cry!”
“Oh, now I’ve made you cry, too,” sobbed Pittypat, in a pleased way, fumbling in her skirtpocket for her handkerchief.
The hard little pain had at last reached Scarlett’s throat and she wailed out loud—not, as Pittypatthought, for poor Charlie but because the last sounds of the wheels and the laughter were dyingaway. Melanie rustled in from her room, a worried frown puckering her forehead, a brush in herhands, her usually tidy black hair, freed of its net, fluffing about her face in a mass of tiny curlsand waves.
“Darlings! What is the matter?”
“Charlie!” sobbed Pittypat, surrendering utterly to the pleasure of her grief and burying her headon Melly’s shoulder.
“Oh,” said Melly, her lip quivering at the mention of her brother’s name. “Be brave, dear. Don’tcry. Oh, Scarlett!”
Scarlett had thrown herself on the bed and was sobbing at the top of her voice, sobbing for herlost youth and the pleasures of youth that were denied her, sobbing with the indignation anddespair of a child who once could get anything she wanted by sobbing and now knows thatsobbing can no longer help her. She burrowed her head in the pillow and cried and kicked her feetat the tufted counterpane.
“I might as well be dead!” she sobbed passionately. Before such an exhibition of grief, Pittypat’seasy tears ceased and Melly flew to the bedside to comfort her sister-in-law.
“Dear, don’t cry! Try to think how much Charlie loved you and let that comfort you! Try tothink of your darling baby.”
Indignation at being misunderstood mingled with Scarlett’s forlorn feeling of being out ofeverything and strangled all utterance. That was fortunate, for if she could have spoken she wouldhave cried out truths coached in Gerald’s forthright words. Melanie patted her shoulder andPittypat tiptoed heavily about the room pulling down the shades.
“Don’t do that!” shouted Scarlett, raising a red and swollen face from the pillow. I’m not deadenough for you to pull down the shades—though I might as well be. Oh, do go away and leave mealone!”
She sank her face into the pillow again and, after a whispered conference, the two standing overher tiptoed out. She heard Melanie say to Pittypat in a low voice as they went down the stairs:
“Aunt Pitty, I wish you wouldn’t speak of Charles to her. You know how it always affects her.
Poor thing, she gets that queer look and I know she’s trying not to cry. We mustn’t make it harderfor her.”
Scarlett kicked the coverlet in impotent rage, trying to think of something bad enough to say.
“God’s nightgown!” she cried at last, and felt somewhat relieved. How could Melanie be contentto stay at home and never have any fun and wear crêpe for her brother when she was only eighteenyears old? Melanie did not seem to know, or care, that life was riding by with jingling spurs.
“But she’s such a stick,” thought Scarlett, pounding the pillow. “And she never was popular likeme, so she doesn’t miss the things I miss. And—and besides she’s got Ashley and I—I haven’t gotanybody!” And at this fresh woe, she broke into renewed outcries.
She remained gloomily in her room until afternoon and then the sight of the returning picnickerswith wagons piled high with pine boughs, vines and ferns did not cheer her. Everyone looked‘happily tired as they waved to her again and she returned their greetings drearily. Life was ahopeless affair and certainly not worth living.
Deliverance came in the form she least expected when, during the after-dinner-nap period, Mrs.
Merriwether and Mrs. Elsing drove up. Startled at having callers at such an hour, Melanie, Scarlettand Aunt Pittypat roused themselves, hastily hooked their basques, smoothed their hair anddescended to the parlor.
“Mrs. Bonnell’s children have the measles,” said Mrs. Merriwether abruptly, showing plainlythat she held Mrs. Bonnell personally responsible for permitting such a thing to happen.
“And the McLure girls have been called to Virginia,” said Mrs. Elsing in her die-away voice,fanning herself languidly as if neither this nor anything else mattered very much. “Dallas McLureis wounded.”
“How dreadful! chorused their hostesses. “Is poor Dallas—”
“No. Just through the shoulder,” said Mrs. Merriwether briskly. “But it couldn’t possibly have happened at a worse time. The girls are going North to bring him home. But, skies above, wehaven’t time to sit here talking. We must hurry back to the Armory and get the decorating done.
Pitty, we need you and Melly tonight to take Mrs. Bonnell’s and the McLure girls’ places.”
“Oh, but, Dolly, we can’t go.”
“Don’t say ‘can’t’ to me, Pittypat Hamilton,” said Mrs. Merriwether vigorously. “We need youto watch the darkies with the refreshments. That was what Mrs. Bonnell was to do. And Melly, youmust take the McLure girls’ booth.”
“Oh, we just couldn’t—with poor Charlie dead only a—”
“I know how you feel but there isn’t any sacrifice too great for the Cause,” broke in Mrs. Elsingin a soft voice that settled matters.
“Oh, we’d love to help but—why can’t you get some sweet pretty girls to take the booths?”
Mrs. Merriwether snorted a trumpeting snort.
“I don’t know what’s the young people these days. They have sense of responsibility.Allthegirlswho(come) haven(over) ’talreadytakenboothshavemoreexcusesthan(no) you couldshake a stick at. Oh, they don’t fool me! They just don’t want to be hampered in making up to theofficers, that’s all. And they’re afraid their new dresses won’t show off behind booth counters. Iwish to goodness that blockade runner—what’s his name?”
“Captain Butler,” supplied Mrs. Elsing.
“I wish he’d bring in more hospital supplies and less hoop skirts and lace. If I’ve had to look atone dress today I’ve had to look at twenty dresses that he ran in. Captain Butler—I’m sick of thename. Now, Pitty, I haven’t time to argue. You must come. Everybody will understand. Nobodywill see you in the back room anyway, and Melly won’t be conspicuous. The poor McLure girls’
booth is way down at the end and not very pretty so nobody will notice you.”
“I think we should go,” said Scarlett, trying to curb her eagerness and to keep her face earnestand simple. “It is the least we can do for the hospital.”
Neither of the visiting ladies had even mentioned her name, and they turned and looked sharplyat her. Even in their extremity, they had not considered asking a widow of scarcely a year to appearat a social function. Scarlett bore their gaze with a wide-eyed childlike expression.
“I think we should go and help to make it a success, all of us. I think I should go in the boothwith Melly because—well, I think it would look better for us both to be there instead of just one.
Don’t you think so, Melly?”
“Well,” began Melly helplessly. The idea of appearing publicly at a social gathering while inmourning was so unheard of she was bewildered.
“Scarlett’s right,” said Mrs. Merriwether, observing signs of weakening. She rose and jerked herhoops into place. “Both of you—all of you must come. Now, Pitty, don’t start your excuses again.
Just think how much the hospital needs money for new beds and drugs. And I know Charlie wouldlike you to help the Cause he died for.”
“Well,” said Pittypat, helpless as always in the presence of a stronger personality, “if you think people will understand.”
“Too good to be true! Too good to be true!” said Scarlett’s joyful heart as she slippedunobtrusively into the pink-and yellow-draped booth that was to have been the McLure girls’.
Actually she was at a party! After a year’s seclusion, after crêpe and hushed voices and nearlygoing crazy with boredom, she was actually at a party, the biggest party Atlanta had ever seen. Andshe could see people and many lights and hear music and view for herself the lovely laces andfrocks and frills that the famous Captain Butler had run through the blockade on his last trip.
She sank down on one of the little stools behind the counter of the booth and looked up anddown the long hall which, until this afternoon, had been a bare and ugly drill room. How the ladiesmust have worked today to bring it to its present beauty. It looked lovely. Every candle andcandlestick in Atlanta must be in this hall tonight, she thought, silver ones with a dozen spranglingarms, china ones with charming figurines clustering their bases, old brass stands, erect anddignified, laden with candles of all sizes and colors, smelling fragrantly of bayberries, standing onthe gun racks that ran the length of the hall, on the long flower-decked tables, on booth counters,even on the sills of the open windows where, the draughts of warm summer air were just strongenough to make them flare.
In the center of the hall the huge ugly lamp, hanging from the ceiling by rusty chains, wascompletely transformed by twining ivy and wild grapevines that were already withering from theheat. The walls were banked with pine branches that gave out a spicy smell, making the corners ofthe room into pretty bowers where the chaperons and old ladies would sit. Long graceful ropes ofivy and grapevine and smilax were hung everywhere, in looping festoons on the walls, drapedabove the windows, twined in scallops all over the brightly colored cheesecloth booths. Andeverywhere amid the greenery, on flags and bunting, blazed the bright stars of the Confederacy ontheir background of red and blue.
The raised platform for the musicians was especially artistic. It was completely hidden fromview by the banked greenery and starry bunting and Scarlett knew that every potted and tubbedplant in town was there, coleus, geranium, hydrangea, oleander, elephant ear—even Mrs. Elsing’sfour treasured rubber plants, which were given posts of honor at the four corners.
At the other end of the hall from the platform, the ladies had eclipsed themselves. On this wallhung large pictures of President Davis and Georgia’s own “Little Alec” Stephens, Vice-Presidentof the Confederacy. Above them was an enormous flag and, beneath, on long tables was the loot ofthe gardens of the town, ferns, banks of roses, crimson and yellow and white, proud sheaths ofgolden gladioli, masses of varicolored nasturtiums, tall stiff hollyhocks rearing deep maroon andcreamy heads above the other flowers. Among them, candles burned serenely like altar fires. Thetwo faces looked down on the scene, two faces as different as could be possible in two men at thehelm of so momentous an undertaking: Davis with the flat cheeks and cold eyes of an ascetic, histhin proud lips set firmly; Stephens with dark burning eyes deep socketed in a face that had knownnothing but sickness and pain and had triumphed over them with humor and with fire—two facesthat were greatly loved.
The elderly ladies of the committee in whose hands rested the responsibility for the whole bazaar rustled in as importantly as full-rigged ships, hurried the belated young matrons andgiggling girls into their booths, and then swept through the doors into the back rooms where therefreshments were being laid out. Aunt Pitty panted out after them.
The musicians clambered upon their platform, black, grinning, their fat cheeks already shiningwith perspiration, and began tuning their fiddles and sawing and whanging with their bows inanticipatory importance. Old Levi, Mrs. Merriwether’s coachman, who had led the orchestras forevery bazaar, ball and wedding since Atlanta was named Marthasville, rapped with his bow forattention. Few except the ladies who were conducting the bazaar had arrived yet, but all eyesturned toward him. Then the fiddles, bull fiddles, accordions, banjos and knuckle-bones broke intoa slow rendition of “Lorena”—too slow for dancing, the dancing would come later when thebooths were emptied of their wares. Scarlett felt her heart beat faster as the sweet melancholy ofthe waltz came to her:
“Theyearscreepslowlyby,Lorena!
Thesnow isonthegrassagain.
Thesun’sfardownthesky,Lorena .
...”
One-two-three, one-two-three, dip-sway—three, turn— two-three. What a beautiful waltz! Sheextended her hands slightly, closed her eyes and swayed with the sad haunting rhythm. There wassomething about the tragic melody and Lorena’s lost love that mingled with her own excitementand brought a lump into her throat.
Then, as if brought into being by the waltz music, sounds floated in from the shadowy moonlitstreet below, the trample of horses’ hooves and the sound of carriage wheels, laughter on the warmsweet air and the soft acrimony of negro voices raised in argument over hitching places for thehorses. There was confusion on the stairs and light-hearted merriment, the mingling of girls’ freshvoices with the bass notes of their escorts, airy cries of greeting and squeals of joy as girlsrecognized friends from whom they had parted only that afternoon.
Suddenly the hall burst into life. It was full of girls, girls who floated in butterfly bright dresses,hooped out enormously, lace pantalets peeping from beneath; round little white shoulders bare, andfaintest traces of soft little bosoms showing above lace flounces; lace shawls carelessly hangingfrom arms; fans spangled and painted, fans of swan’s-down and peacock feathers, dangling atwrists by tiny velvet ribbons; girls with masses of golden curls about their necks and fringed goldearbobs that tossed and danced with their dancing curls. Laces and silks and braid and ribbons, allblockade run, all the more precious and more proudly worn because of it, finery flaunted with anadded pride as an extra affront to the Yankees.
Not all the Sowers of the town were standing in tribute to the leaders of the Confederacy. Thesmallest, the most fragrant blossoms bedecked the girls. Tea roses tucked behind pink ears, capejessamine and bud roses in round little garlands over cascades of side curls, blossoms thrustdemurely into satin sashes, flowers that before the night was over would find their way into thebreast pockets of gray uniforms as treasured souvenirs.
There were so many uniforms in the crowd—so many uniforms on so many men whom Scarlettknew, men she had met on hospital cots, on the streets, at the drill ground. They were suchresplendent uniforms, brave with shining buttons and dazzling with twined gold braid on cuffs andcollars, the red and yellow and blue stripes on the trousers, for the different branches of the service,setting off the gray to perfection. Scarlet and gold sashes swung to and fro, sabers glittered andbanged against shining boots, spurs rattled and jingled.
Such handsome men, thought Scarlett, with a swell of pride in her heart, as the men calledgreetings, waved to friends, bent low over the hands of elderly ladies. All of them were so younglooking, even with their sweeping yellow mustaches and full black and brown beards, so handsome,so reckless, with their arms in slings, with head bandages startlingly white across sun-browned faces. Some of them were on crutches and how proud were the girls who solicitouslyslowed their steps to their escorts’ hopping pace! There was one gaudy splash of color among theuniforms that put the girls’ bright finery to shame and stood out in the crowd like a tropical bird—aLouisiana Zouave, with baggy blue and white striped pants, cream gaiters and tight little redjacket, a dark, grinning little monkey of a man, with his arm in a black silk sling. He was MaybelleMerriwether’s especial beau, René Picard. The whole hospital must have turned out, at leasteverybody who could walk, and all the men on furlough and sick leave and all the railroad andmail service and hospital and commissary departments between here and Macon. How pleased theladies would be! The hospital should make a mint of money tonight.
There was a ruffle of drums from the street below, the tramp of feet, the admiring cries ofcoachmen. A bugle blared and a bass voice shouted the command to break ranks. In a moment, theHome Guard and the militia unit in their bright uniforms shook the narrow stairs and crowded intothe room, bowing, saluting, shaking hands. There were boys in the Home Guard, proud to beplaying at war, promising themselves they would be in Virginia this time next year, if the warwould just last that long; old men with white beards, wishing they were younger, proud to march inuniform in the reflected glory of sons at the front In the militia, there were many middle-aged menand some older men but there was a fair sprinkling of men of military age who did not carrythemselves quite so jauntily as their elders or their juniors. Already people were beginning towhisper, asking why they were not with Lee.
How would they all get into the hall! It had seemed such a large place a few minutes before, andnow it was packed, warm with summer-night odors of sachet and cologne water and hair pomadeand burning bayberry candles, fragrant with flowers, faintly dusty as many feet trod the old drillfloors. The din and hubbub of voices made it almost impossible to hear anything and, as if feelingthe joy and excitement of the occasion, old Levi choked off “Lorena” in mid-bar, rapped sharplywith his bow and, sawing away for dear life, the orchestra burst into “Bonnie Blue Flag.”
A hundred voices took it up, sang it shouted it like a cheer. The Home Guard bugler, climbingonto the platform, caught up with the music just as the chorus began, and the high silver notessoared out thrillingly above the massed singing, causing goose bumps to break out on bare armsand cold chills of deeply felt emotion to fly down spines:
“Hurrah!Hurrah!FortheSouthernRights,hurrah!
HurrahfortheBonnieBlueFlag Thatbearsasinglestar!”
They crashed into the second verse and Scarlett, singing with the rest, heard the high sweetsoprano of Melanie mounting behind her, clear and true and thrilling as the bugle notes. Turning,she saw that Melly was standing with her hands clasped to her breast her eyes closed, and tinytears oozing from the corners. She smiled at Scarlett, whimsically, as the music ended, making alittle moue of apology as she dabbed with her handkerchief.
“I’m so happy,” she whispered, “and so proud of the soldiers that I just can’t help crying aboutit.”
There was a deep, almost fanatic glow in her eyes that for a moment lit up her plain little faceand made it beautiful.
The same look was on the faces of all the women as the song ended, tears of pride on cheeks,pink or wrinkled, smiles on lips, a deep hot glow in eyes, as they turned to their men, sweetheart tolover, mother to son, wife to husband. They were all beautiful with the blinding beauty thattransfigures even the plainest woman when she is utterly protected and utterly loved and is givingback that love a thousandfold.
They loved their men, they believed in them, they trusted them to the last breaths of their bodies.
How could disaster ever come to women such as they when their stalwart gray line stood betweenthem and the Yankees? Had there ever been such men as these since the first dawn of the world, soheroic, so reckless, so gallant, so tender? How could anything but overwhelming victory come to aCause as just and right as theirs? A Cause they loved as much as they loved their men, a Causethey served with their hands and their hearts, a Cause they talked about, thought about, dreamedabout—a Cause to which they would sacrifice these men if need be, and bear their loss as proudlyas the men bore their battle flags.
It was high tide of devotion and pride in their hearts, high tide of the Confederacy, for finalvictory was at hand. Stonewall Jackson’s triumphs in the Valley and the defeat of the Yankees inthe Seven Days’ Battle around Richmond showed that clearly. How could it be otherwise with suchleaders as Lee and Jackson? One more victory and the Yankees would be on their knees yelling forpeace and the men would be riding home and there would be kissing and laughter. One morevictory and the war was over!
Of course, there were empty chairs and babies who would never see their fathers’ faces andunmarked graves by lonely Virginia creeks and in the still mountains of Tennessee, but was thattoo great a price to pay for such a Cause? Silks for the ladies and tea and sugar were hard to get;but that was something to joke about. Besides, the dashing blockade runners were bringing in thesevery things under the Yankees’ disgruntled noses, and that made the possession of them manytimes more thrilling. Soon Raphael Semmes and the Confederate Navy would tend to those Yankeegunboats and the ports would be wide open. And England was coming in to help the Confederacywin the war, because the English mills were standing idle for want of Southern cotton. Andnaturally the British aristocracy sympathized with the Confederacy, as one aristocrat with another,against a race of dollar lovers like the Yankees.
So the women swished their silks and laughed and, looking on their men with hearts bursting with pride, they knew that love snatched in the face of danger and death was doubly sweet for thestrange excitement that went with it.
When first she looked at the crowd, Scarlett’s heart had thump-thumped with the unaccustomedexcitement of being at a party, but as she half-comprehendingly saw the high-hearted look on thefaces about her, her joy began to evaporate. Every woman present was blazing with an emotion shedid not feel. It bewildered and depressed her. Somehow, the hall did not seem so pretty nor thegirls so dashing, and the white heat of devotion to the Cause that was still shining on every faceseemed—why, it just seemed silly!
In a sudden flash of self-knowledge that made her mouth pop open with astonishment, sherealized that she did not share with these women their fierce pride, their desire to sacrificethemselves and everything they had for the Cause. Before horror made her think: “No—no! Imustn’t think such things! They’re wrong—sinful,” she knew the Cause meant nothing at all to herand that she was bored with heating other people talk about it with that fanatic look in their eyes.
The Cause didn’t seem sacred to her. The war didn’t seem to be a holy affair, but a nuisance thatkilled men senselessly and cost money and made luxuries hard to get. She saw that she was tired ofthe endless knitting and the endless bandage rolling and lint picking that roughened the cuticle ofher nails. And oh, she was so tired of the hospital! Tired and bored and nauseated with thesickening gangrene smells and the endless moaning, frightened by the look that coming death gaveto sunken faces.
She looked furtively around her, as the treacherous, blasphemous thoughts rushed through hermind, fearful that someone might find them written clearly upon her face. Oh, why couldn’t shefeel like those other women! They were whole hearted and sincere in their devotion to the Cause.
They really meant everything they said and did. And if anyone should ever suspect that she— No,no one must ever know! She must go on making a pretense of enthusiasm and pride in the Causewhich she could not feel, acting out her part of the widow of a Confederate officer who bears hergrief bravely, whose heart is in the grave, who feels that her husband’s death meant nothing if itaided the Cause to triumph.
Oh, why was she different, apart from these loving women? She could never love anything oranyone so selflessly as they did. What a lonely feeling it was—and she had never been lonelyeither in body or spirit before. At first she tried to stifle the thoughts, but the hard self-honesty thatlay at the base of her nature would not permit it And so, while the bazaar went on, while she andMelanie waited on the customers who came to their booth, her mind was busily working, trying tojustify herself to herself—a task which she seldom found difficult.
The other women were simply silly and hysterical with their talk of patriotism and the Cause,and the men were almost as bad with their talk of vital issues and States’ Rights. She, ScarlettO’Hara Hamilton, alone had good hard-headed Irish sense. She wasn’t going to make a fool out ofherself about the Cause, but neither was she going to make a fool out of herself by admitting hertrue feelings. She was hard-headed enough to be practical about the situation, and no one wouldever know how she felt How surprised the bazaar would be if they knew what she really wasthinking! How shocked if she suddenly climbed on the bandstand and declared that she thought thewar ought to stop, so everybody could go home and tend to their cotton and there could be partiesand beaux again and plenty of pale green dresses.
For a moment, her self-justification buoyed her up but still she looked about the hall withdistaste. The McLure girls’ booth was inconspicuous, as Mrs. Merriwether had said, and there werelong intervals when no one c............