Good riddance came in the form she least expected when, during the after-dinner-nap period, Mrs. Merriwether and Mrs. Elsing drove up.
“Mrs. Bonnell’s children have the measles,” said Mrs. Merriwether abruptly.
“And the McLure girls have been called to Virginia,” said Mrs. Elsing, “for Dallas McLure is wounded.”
“So, Pitty, we need you and Melly tonight to take Mrs. Bonnell’s and the McLure girls’ places,” said Mrs. Merriwether.
“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. Elsing.
“I think we should go,” said Scarlett. “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 sharply at her. Scarlett’s face kept a childlike expression.
“I think we should go and help to make it a success, all of us. I think I should go in the booth with Melly because – well, I think it would look better for us both. Don’t you think so, Melly?”
“Well,” began Melly helplessly. The idea of appearing publicly at a social gathering while in mourning was so unheard of she was bewildered.
“Scarlett’s right,” said Mrs. Merriwether. “And I know Charlie would like you to help the Cause he died for.”
“Too good to be true![32]” said Scarlett’s joyful heart. Actually she was at a party! After a year’s seclusion, she was at the biggest party Atlanta had ever seen. And she could see people and many lights and hear music.
She sat down on one of the little stools behind the counter of the booth and looked up and down the long hall. It looked lovely. And everywhere among the greenery, on flags, blazed the bright stars of the Confederacy.
The musicians got on the platform, black, grinning, their fat cheeks already shining with sweat, and began tuning their fiddles. Scarlett felt her heart beat faster as the sweet melancholy of the waltz came to her:
“The years creep slowly by, Lorena! The snow is on the grass again. The sun’s far down the sky, Lorena…”
One-two-three, one-two-three. What a beautiful waltz!
Suddenly the hall burst into life. It was full of girls, who floated in bright dresses; round little white shoulders bare; lace shawls carelessly hanging from arms; girls with masses of golden curls about their necks.
There were so many uniforms in the crowd on so many men whom Scarlett knew, men she had met on hospital cots, on the streets, at the drill ground. All of them were so young looking, so handsome, so reckless, with their arms in slings, with head bandages white across sun-browned faces. Some of them were on crutches and how proud were the girls who slowed their steps to their escorts’ hopping pace! The whole hospital must have turned out, at least everybody who could walk. The hospital should make a lot of money tonight.
There was a sound of drums from the street below, the tramp of feet. In a moment, the Home Guard and the militia unit in their bright uniforms crowded into the room, bowing, saluting, shaking hands.
The orchestra burst into “Bonnie Blue Flag[33].”
A hundred voices took it up, sang it, shouted it like a cheer.
“Hurrah! Hurrah! For the Southern Rights, hurrah! Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!”
They started the second verse and Scarlett, singing with the rest, heard the high sweet soprano of Melanie behind her. Turning, she saw that Melly was standing with her hands clasped to her breast, her eyes closed, and tiny tears oozing from the corners. She smiled at Scarlett, as the music ended.
“I’m so happy,” she whispered, “and so proud of the soldiers that I just can’t help crying about it.”
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, as they turned to their men, sweetheart to lover, mother to son, wife to husband. They were all beautiful with the beauty that transfigures even the plainest woman when she is utterly protected and loved and is giving back that love a thousand times.
They loved their men, they believed in them, they trusted them to the last breaths of their bodies. It was devotion to and pride in the Confederacy, for final victory was at hand. Stonewall Jackson[34]’s triumphs in the Valley and the defeat of the Yankees in the Seven Days’ Battle around Richmond showed that clearly. How could it be otherwise with such leaders as Lee[35] and Jackson? One more victory and the Yankees would be on their knees asking for peace and the men would be riding home and there would be kissing and laughter. One more victory and the war was over!
But then Scarlett’s joy began to evaporate as she didn’t feel any such emotion. It bewildered and depressed her. Somehow, the ball did not seem so pretty nor the girls so dashing, and the devotion to the Cause – why, it just seemed silly!
The Cause didn’t seem sacred to her. The war didn’t seem to be a holy affair, but a nuisance that killed men and cost money and made luxuries hard to get. She saw that she was tired of the endless knitting and the endless bandage rolling. And oh, she was so tired of the hospital! Tired and bored and nauseated with the sickening gangrene smells and the endless moaning, frightened by the look of coming death.
Oh, why was she different? She could never love anything or anyone so selflessly as they did. She was trying to justify 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 States’ Rights. She, Scarlett O’Hara Hamilton, alone had good hard-headed Irish sense. She wasn’t going to make a fool out of herself about the Cause, but neither was she going to make a fool out of herself by admitting her true feelings. She was hard-headed enough to be practical about the situation, and no one would ever know how she felt.
She looked about the hall with distaste. The McLure girls’ booth was inconspicuous and there were long intervals when no one came to their corner and Scarlett had nothing to do but look enviously on the happy crowd.
No, she was not happy now as just being present was not enough. She was at the bazaar but not a part of it. No one paid her any attention. And all her life she had enjoyed the center of the stage. It wasn’t fair! She was seventeen years old and her feet were patting the floor, wanting to dance.
Every girl in Atlanta could have a man. Even the plainest girls were carrying on like belles – and, oh, worst of all, they were wearing such lovely, lovely dresses!
Here she sat like a crow with black taffeta to her wrists and buttoned up to her chin, watching tacky-looking girls hanging on the arms of good-looking men. All because Charles Hamilton had had the measles. He didn’t even die in battle, so she could brag about him.
She leaned her elbows on the counter and looked at the crowd.
For a brief moment she considered the unfairness of it all. How short was the time for fun, for pretty clothes, for dancing, for coquetting! Only a few, too few years! Then you married and wore dull-colored dresses and only emerged to dance with your husband or with old gentlemen who stepped on your feet. If you didn’t do these things, the other matrons talked about you and then your reputation was ruined and your family disgraced.
How wonderful it would be never to marry but to go on being lovely in pale green dresses and forever courted by handsome men. But, if you went on too long, you got to be an old maid and everyone said “poor thing” in that hateful way. No, after all it was better to marry and keep your self-respect even if you never had any more fun.
Oh, what a mess life was! Why had she been such an idiot as to marry Charles