What Peter said was true but she hated to hear it from a negro and a family negro, too. Not to stand high in the opinion of one's servants was as humiliating a thing as could happen to a Southerner.
"A ole pet!" Peter grumbled. "Ah specs Miss Pitty ain't gwine want me ter drive you roun'
no mo' after dat. No, Ma'm!"
"Aunt Pitty will want you to drive me as usual," she said sternly, "so let's hear no more about it."
"Ah'll git a mizry in mah back," warned Peter darkly. "Mah back huttin' me so bad dis minute Ah kain sceercely set up. Mah Miss ain' gwine want me ter do no drivin' w'en Ah got a mizry… Miss Scarlett, it ain' gwine do you no good ter stan' high wid de Yankees an' de w'ite trash, ef yo' own folks doan 'prove of you."
That was as accurate a summing up of the situation as could be made and Scarlett
relapsed into infuriated silence. Yes, the conquerors did approve of her and her family and her neighbors did not. She knew all the things the town was saying about her. And now even Peter disapproved of her to the point of not caring to be seen in public with her. That was the last straw.
Heretofore she had been careless of public opinion, careless and a little contemptuous.
But Peter's words caused fierce resentment to burn in her breast, drove her to a defensive position, made her suddenly dislike her neighbors as much as she disliked the Yankees.
"Why should they care what I do?" she thought. "They must think I enjoy associating with Yankees and working like a field hand. They're just making a hard job harder for me. But I don't care what they think. I won't let myself care. I can't afford to care now. But some day--some day--"
Oh some day! When there was security in her world again, then she would sit back and
fold her hands and be a great lady as Ellen had been. She would be helpless and sheltered, as a lady should be, and then everyone would approve of her. Oh, how grand she would be when she had money again! Then she could permit herself to be kind and gentle, as Ellen had been, and thoughtful of other people and of the proprieties, too. She would not be driven by fears, day and night, and life would be a placid, unhurried affair. She would have time to play with her children and listen to their lessons. There would be long warm afternoons when ladies would call and, amid the rustlings of taffeta petticoats and the rhythmic harsh cracklings of palmetto fans, she would serve tea and delicious sandwiches and cakes and leisurely gossip the hours away. And she would be so kind to those who were suffering misfortune, take baskets to the poor and soup and jelly to the sick and "air" those less fortunate in her fine carriage. She would be a lady in the true Southern manner, as her mother had been. And then, everyone would love her as they had loved Ellen and they would say how unselfish she was and call her "Lady Bountiful."
Her pleasure in these thoughts of the future was un-dimmed by any realization that she
had no real desire to be unselfish or charitable or kind. All she wanted was the reputation for possessing these qualities. But the meshes of her brain were too wide, too coarse, to filter such small differences. It was enough that some day, when she had money, everyone would approve of her.
Some day! But not now. Not now, in spite of what anyone might say of her. Now, there
was no time to be a great lady.
Peter was as good as his word. Aunt Pitty did get into a state, and Peter's misery developed overnight to such proportions that he never drove the buggy again. Thereafter Scarlett drove alone and the calluses which had begun to leave her palms came back again.
So the spring months went by, the cool rains of April passing into the warm balm of green May weather. The weeks were packed with work and worry and the handicaps of increasing
pregnancy, with old friends growing cooler and her family increasingly more kind, more
maddeningly solicitous and more completely blind to what was driving her. During those days of anxiety and struggle there was only one dependable, understanding person in her world, and that person was Rhett Butler. It was odd that he of all people should appear in this light, for he was as unstable as quicksilver and as perverse as a demon fresh from the pit. But he gave her sympathy, something she had never had from anyone and never expected from him.
Frequently he was out of town on those mysterious trips to New Orleans which he never
explained but which she felt sure, in a faintly jealous way, were connected with a woman--or women. But after Uncle Peter's refusal to drive her, he remained in Atlanta for longer and longer intervals.
While in town, he spent most of his time gambling in the rooms above the Girl of the