Scarlett sopped the wheat cake in the gravy and put it in her mouth.Perhaps there was something in what Mammy said.There must be something in it,for Ellen said the same things,in different and more delicate words.In fact,the mothers of all her girl friends impressed on their daughters the necessity of being helpless,clinging doe-eyed creatures.Really,it took a lot of sense to cultivate and hold such a pose.Perhaps she had been too brash.Occasionally she had argued with Ashley and frankly aired her opinions.Perhaps this and her healthy enjoyment of walking and riding had turned him from her to the frail Melanie.Perhaps if she changed her tricks—But she felt that if Ashley succumbed to premeditated feminine tricks,she could never respect him as she now did.Any man who was fool enough to fall for a simper,a faint and an “Oh,how wonderful you are!”wasn't worth having.But they all seemed to like it.
If she had used the wrong tactics with Ashley in the past—well,that was the past and done with.Today she would use different ones,the right ones.She wanted him and she had only a few hours in which to get him.If fainting,or pretending to faint,would do the trick,then she would faint.If simpering,coquetry or empty-headedness would attract him,she would gladly play the flirt and be more empty-headed than even Cathleen Calvert.And if bolder measures were necessary,she would take them.Today was the day!
There was no one to tell Scarlett that her own personality,frighteningly vital though it was,was more attractive than any masquerade she might adopt.Had she been told,she would have been pleased but unbelieving.And the civilization of which she was a part would have been unbelieving too,for at no time,before or since,had so low a premium been placed on feminine naturalness.
As the carriage bore her down the red road toward the Wilkes plantation,Scarlett had a feeling of guilty pleasure that neither her mother nor Mammy was with the party.There would be no one at the barbecue who,by delicately lifted brows or out-thrust underlip,could interfere with her plan of action.Of course,Suellen would be certain to tell tales tomorrow,but if all went as Scarlett hoped,the excitement of the family over her engagement to Ashley or her elopement would more than overbalance their displeasure.Yes,she was very glad Ellen had been forced to stay at home.
Gerald,primed with brandy,had given Jonas Wilkerson his dismissal that morning,and Ellen had remained at Tara to go over the accounts of the plantation before he took his departure.Scarlett had kissed her mother good-by in the little office where she sat before the tall secretary with its paper-stuffed pigeonholes.Jonas Wilkerson,hat in hand,stood beside her,his sallow tight-skinned face hardly concealing the fury of hate that possessed him at being so unceremoniously turned out of the best overseer's job in the County.And all because of a bit of minor philandering.He had told Gerald over and over that Emmie Slattery's baby might have been fathered by any one of a dozen men as easily as himself—an idea in which Gerald concurred—but that had not altered his case so far as Ellen was concerned.Jonas hated all Southerners.He hated their cool courtesy to him and their contempt for his social status,so inadequately covered by their courtesy.He hated Ellen O'Hara above anyone else,for she was the epitome of all that he hated in Southerners.
Mammy,as head woman of the plantation,had remained to help Ellen,and it was Dilcey who rode on the driver's seat beside Toby,the girls'dancing dresses in a long box across her lap.
Gerald rode beside the carriage on his big hunter,warm with brandy and pleased with himself for having gotten through with the unpleasant business of Wilkerson so speedily.He had shoved the responsibility onto Ellen,and her disappointment at missing the barbecue and the gathering of her friends did not enter his mind;for it was a fine spring day and his fields were beautiful and the birds were singing and he felt too young and frolicsome to think of anyone else.Occasionally he burst out with “Peg in a Low-backed Car”and other Irish ditties or the more lugubrious lament for Robert Emmet,“She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps.”
He was happy,pleasantly excited over the prospect of spending the day shouting about the Yankees and the war,and proud of his three pretty daughters in their bright spreading hoop skirts beneath foolish little lace parasols.He gave no thought to his conversation of the day before with Scarlett,for it had completely slipped his mind.He only thought that she was pretty and a great credit to him and that,today,her eyes were as green as the hills of Ireland.The last thought made him think better of himself,for it had a certain poetic ring to it,and so he favored the girls with a loud and slightly off-key rendition of “The Wearin'o'the Green.”
Scarlett,looking at him with the affectionate contempt that mothers feel for small swaggering sons,knew that he would be very drunk by sundown.Coming home in the dark,he would try,as usual,to jump every fence between Twelve Oaks and Tara and,she hoped,by the mercy of Providence and the good sense of his horse,would escape breaking his neck.He would disdain the bridge and swim his horse through the river and come home roaring,to be put to bed on the sofa in the office by Pork who always waited up with a lamp in the front hall on such occasions.
He would ruin his new gray broadcloth suit,which would cause him to swear horribly in the morning and tell Ellen at great length how his horse fell off the bridge in the darkness—a palpable lie which would fool no one but which would be accepted by all and make him feel very clever.
