turn her face upward, his own face furrowed with pity.
âNo,â she cried vehemently, jerking away.
âItâs lying you are, and Iâm proud of it. Iâm glad thereâspride in you, Puss. And I want to see pride in you tomorrow at the barbecue. Iâll not be having the County gossiping and laughing at you for mooning your heart out about a man who never gave you a thought beyond friendship.â
âHe did give me a thought,â thought Scarlett, sorrowfully in her heart. âOh, a lot of thoughts! I know he did. I could tell. If Iâd just had a little longer, I know I could have made him sayâ Oh, if it only wasnât that the Wilkes always feel that they have to marry their cousins!â
Gerald took her arm and passed it through his.
âWeâll be going in to supper now, and all this is between us. Iâll not be worrying your mother with thisânor do you do it, either. Blow your nose, daughter.â
Scarlett blew her nose on her torn handkerchief, and they started up the dark drive arm in arm, the horse following slowly. Near the house, Scarlett was at the point of speaking again when she saw her mother in the dim shadows of the porch. She had on her bonnet, shawl and mittens, and behind her was Mammy, her face like a thundercloud, holding in her hand the black leather bag she used in doctoring the slaves. Mammyâs lips were large and pendulous and, when indignant, she could push out her lower one to twice its normal length. It was pushed out now, and Scarlett knew that Mammy was seething over something of which she did not approve.
âMr. OâHara,â called Ellen as she saw the two coming up the drivewayâEllen belonged to a generation that was formal even after seventeen years of wedlock and the bearing of six childrenââMr. OâHara, there is illness at the Slattery house. Emmieâs baby has been born and is dying and must be baptized. I am going there with Mammy to see what I can do.â
Her voice was raised questioningly, as though she hung on Geraldâs assent to her plan, a mere formality but one dear to the heart of Gerald.
âIn the name of God!â blustered Gerald. âWhy should those white trash take you away just at your supper hour and just when Iâm wanting to tell you about the war talk thatâs going on in Atlanta! Go, Mrs. OâHara. Youâd not rest easy on your pillow the night if there was trouble abroad and you not there to help.â
âShe doan never git no resâ on her piller fer hoppinâ up at night time nursinâ niggers anâ poâ wâite trash dat could tenâ to deyseff,â grumbled Mammy in a monotone as she went down the stairs toward the carriage which was waiting in the side drive.
âTake my place at the table, dear,â said Ellen, patting Scarlettâs cheek softly with a mittened hand.
In spite of her choked-back tears, Scarlett thrilled to the never-failing magic of her motherâs touch, to the faint fragrance of lemon verbena sachet that came from her rustling silk dress. To Scarlett, there was something breath-taking about Ellen OâHara, a miracle that lived in the house with her and awed her and charmed and soothed her.
Gerald helped his wife into the carriage and gave orders to the coachman to drive carefully. Toby, who had handled Geraldâs horses for twenty years, pushed out his lips in mute indignation at being told how to conduct his own business. Driving off, with Mammy beside him, each was a perfect picture of pouting African disapproval.
âIf I didnât do so much for those trashy Slatterys that theyâd have to pay money for elsewhere,â fumed Gerald, âtheyâd be willing to sell me their miserable few acres of swamp bottom, and the County would be well rid ofthem.â Then, brightening, in anticipation of one of his practical jokes: âCome, daughter, letâs go tell