She smiled up at him as she sipped the wine, knowing that her cheeks were more
attractively pink than any of the dancers'. She moved her skirts for him to sit by her and waved her handkerchief idly so that the faint sweet smell of the cologne could reach his nose. She was proud of the cologne, for no other woman in the room was wearing any and Frank had noticed it.
In a fit of daring he had whispered to her that she was as pink and fragrant as a rose.
If only he were not so shy! He reminded her of a timid old brown field rabbit. If only he had the gallantry and ardor of the Tarleton boys or even the coarse impudence of Rhett Butler.
But, if he possessed those qualities, he'd probably have sense enough to feel the desperation that lurked just beneath her demurely fluttering eyelids. As it was, he didn't know enough about women even to suspect what she was up to. That was her good fortune but it did not increase her respect for him.
CHAPTER XXXVI
SHE MARRIED Frank Kennedy two weeks later after a whirlwind courtship which she
blushingly told him left her too breathless to oppose his ardor any longer.
He did not know that during those two weeks she had walked the floor at night, gritting
her teeth at the slowness with which he took hints and encouragements, praying that no untimely letter from Suellen would reach him and ruin her plans. She thanked God that her sister was the poorest of correspondents, delighting to receive letters and disliking to write them. But there was always a chance, always a chance, she thought in the long night hours as she padded back and forth across the cold floor of her bedroom, with Ellen's faded shawl clutched about her
nightdress. Frank did not know she had received a laconic letter from Will, relating that Jonas Wilkerson had paid another call at Tara and, finding her gone to Atlanta, had stormed about until Will and Ashley threw him bodily off the place. Will's letter hammered into her mind the fact she knew only too well--that time was getting shorter and shorter before the extra taxes must be paid.
A fierce desperation drove her as she saw the days slipping by and she wished she might grasp the hourglass in her hands and keep the sands from running.
But so well did she conceal her feelings, so well did she enact her role, Frank suspected nothing, saw no more than what lay on the surface--the pretty and helpless young widow of
Charles Hamilton who greeted him every night in Miss Pittypat's parlor and listened, breathless with admiration, as he told of future plans for his store and how much money he expected to make when he was able to buy the sawmill. Her sweet sympathy and her bright-eyed interest in every word he uttered were balm upon the wound left by Suellen's supposed defection. His heart was sore and bewildered at Suellen's conduct and his vanity, the shy, touchy vanity of a middle-aged bachelor who knows himself to be unattractive to women, was deeply wounded. He could not write Suellen, upbraiding her for her faithlessness; he shrank from the very idea. But he could ease his heart by talking about her to Scarlett. Without saying a disloyal word about Suellen, she could tell him she understood how badly her sister had treated him and what good treatment he merited from a woman who really appreciated him.
Little Mrs. Hamilton was such a pretty pink-cheeked person, alternating between
melancholy sighs when she thought of her sad plight, and laughter as gay and sweet as the tinkling of tiny silver bells when he made small jokes to cheer her. Her green gown, now neatly cleaned by Mammy, showed off her slender figure with its tiny waist to perfection, and how bewitching was the faint fragrance which always clung about her handkerchief and her hair! It was a shame that such a fine little woman should be alone and helpless in a world so rough that she didn't even understand its harshness. No husband nor brother nor even a father now to protect her. Frank thought the world too rude a place for a lone woman and, in that idea, Scarlett silently and heartily concurred.
He came to call every night, for the atmosphere of Pitty's house was pleasant and
soothing. Mammy's smile at the front door was the smile reserved for quality folks, Pitty served him coffee laced with brandy and fluttered about him and Scarlett hung on his every utterance.
Sometimes in the afternoons he took Scarlett riding with him in his buggy when he went out on business. These rides were merry affairs because she asked so many foolish questions--"just like a woman," he told himself approvingly. He couldn't help laughing at her ignorance about business matters and she laughed too, saying: "Well, of course, you can't expect a silly little woman like me to understand men's affairs."
She made him feel, for the first time in his old-maidish life, that he was a strong