Gone With the Wind

"My dear Mrs. Kennedy," he said, walking toward her. "My very dear Mrs. Kennedy!" and he broke into a loud merry laugh.

At first she was as startled as if a ghost had invaded the store and then, hastily removing her foot from beneath her, she stiffened her spine and gave him a cold stare.

"What are you doing here?"

"I called on Miss Pittypat and learned of your marriage and so I hastened here to congratulate you."

The memory of her humiliation at his hands made her go crimson with shame.

"I don't see how you have the gall to face me!" she cried.

"On the contrary! How have you the gall to face me?"

"Oh, you are the most -- "

"Shall we let the bugles sing truce?" he smiled down at her, a wide flashing smile that had impudence in it but no shame for his own actions or condemnation for hers. In spite of herself, she had to smile too, but it was a wry, uncomfortable smile.

"What a pity they didn't hang you!"

"Others share your feeling, I fear. Come, Scarlett, relax. You look like you'd swallowed a ramrod and it isn't becoming. Surely, you've had time to recover from my -- er -- my little joke."

"Joke? Ha! I'll never get over it!"

"Oh, yes, you will. You are just putting on this indignant front because you think it's proper and respectable. May I sit down?"

"No."

He sank into a chair beside her and grinned.

"I hear you couldn't even wait two weeks for me," he said and gave a mock sigh. "How fickle is woman!"

When she did not reply he continued.

"Tell me, Scarlett, just between friends -- between very old and very intimate friends -- wouldn't it have been wiser to wait until I got out of jail? Or are the charms of wedlock with old Frank Kennedy more alluring than illicit relations with me?"

As always when his mockery aroused wrath within her, wrath fought with laughter at his impudence.

"Don't be absurd."

"And would you mind satisfying my curiosity on one point which has bothered me for some time? Did you have no womanly repugnance, no delicate shrinking from marrying not just one man but two for whom you had no love or even affection? Or have I been misinformed about the delicacy of our Southern womanhood?"

"Rhett!"

"I have my answer. I always felt that women had a hardness and endurance unknown to men, despite the pretty idea taught me in childhood that women are frail, tender, sensitive creatures. But after all, according to the Continental code of etiquette, it's very bad form for husband and wife to love each other. Very bad taste, indeed. I always felt that the Europeans had the right idea in that matter. Marry for convenience and love for pleasure. A sensible system, don't you think? You are closer to the old country than I thought."

How pleasant it would be to shout at him: "I did not marry for convenience!" But unfortunately, Rhett had her there and any protest of injured innocence would only bring more barbed remarks from him.

"How you do run on," she said coolly. Anxious to change the subject, she asked: "How did you ever get out of jail?"

"Oh, that!" he answered, making an airy gesture. "Not much trouble. They let me out this morning. I employed a delicate system of blackmail on a friend in Washington who is quite high in the councils of the Federal government. A splendid fellow -- one of the staunch Union patriots from whom I used to buy muskets and hoop skirts for the Confederacy. When my distressing predicament was brought to his attention in the right way, he hastened to use his influence, and so I was released. Influence is everything, and guilt or innocence merely an academic question."

"I'll take oath you weren't innocent."

"No, now that I am free of the toils, I'll frankly admit that I'm as guilty as Cain. I did kill the nigger. He was uppity to a lady, and what else could a Southern gentleman do? And while I'm confessing, I must admit that I shot a Yankee cavalryman after some words in a barroom. I was not charged with that peccadillo, so perhaps some other poor devil has been hanged for it, long since."

He was so blithe about his murders her blood chilled. Words of moral indignation rose to her lips but suddenly she remembered the Yankee who lay under the tangle of scuppernong vines at Tara. He had not been on her conscience any more than a roach upon which she might have stepped. She could not sit in judgment on Rhett when she was as guilty as he.

"And, as I seem to be making a clean breast of it, I must tell you, in strictest confidence (that means, don't tell Miss Pittypat!) that I did have the money, safe in a bank in Liverpool."