“What can we do？” she thought； wringing her hands in an agony of helpless fear。 “What can we do with devils who’d hang a nice boy like Tony just for killing a drunken buck and a scoundrelly Scalawag to protect his women folks？”
“It isn’t to be borne！” Tony had cried and he was right。 It couldn’t be borne。 But what could they do except bear it； helpless as they were？ She fell to trembling and； for the first time in her life； she saw people and events as something apart from herself； saw clearly that Scarlett O’Hara； frightened and helpless； was not all that mattered。 There were thousands of women like her； all over the South； who were frightened and helpless。 And thousands of men； who had laid down their arms at Appomattox； had taken them up again and stood ready to risk their necks on a minute’s notice to protect those women。
There had been something in Tony’s face which had been mirrored in Frank’s； an expression she had seen recently on the faces of other men in Atlanta； a look she had noticed but had not troubled to analyze。 It was an expression vastly different from the tired helplessness she had seen in the faces of men coming home from the war after the surrender。 Those men had not cared about anything except getting home。 Now they were caring about something again； numbed nerves were coming back to life and the old spirit was beginning to burn。 They were caring again with a cold ruthless bitterness。 And； like Tony； they were thinking： “It isn’t to be borne！”
She had seen Southern men； soft voiced and dangerous in the days before the war； reckless and hard in the last despairing days of the fighting。 But in the faces of the two men who stared at each other across the candle flame so short a while ago there had been something that was different； something that heartened her but frightened her—fury which could find no words； determination which would stop at nothing。
For the first time； she felt a kinship with the people about her； felt one with them in their fears； their bitterness； their determination。 No； it wasn’t to be borne！ The South was too beautiful a place to be let go without a struggle； too loved to be trampled by Yankees who hated Southerners enough to enjoy grinding them into the dirt； too dear a homeland to be turned over to ignorant negroes drunk with whisky and freedom。
As she thought of Tony’s sudden entrance and swift exit； she felt herself akin to him； for she remembered the old story how her father had left Ireland； left hastily and by night； after a murder which was no murder to him or to his family。 Gerald’s blood was in her； violent blood。 She remembered her hot joy in shooting the marauding Yankee。 Violent blood was in them all； perilously close to the surface； lurking just beneath the kindly courteous exteriors。 All of them； all the men she knew； even the drowsy…eyed Ashley and fidgety old Frank； were like that underneath—murderous； violent if the need arose。 Even Rhett； conscienceless scamp that he was； had killed a negro for being “uppity to a lady。”
“Oh； Frank； how long will it be like this？” she leaped to her feet。
“As long as the Yankees hate us so； Sugar。”
“Is there nothing anybody can do？”
Frank passed a tired hand over his wet beard。 “We are doing things。”
“What？”
“Why talk of them till we have accomplished something？ It may take years。 Perhaps—perhaps the South will always be like this。”
“Oh； no！”
“Sugar； come to bed。 You must be chilled。 You are shaking。”
“When will it all end？”
“When we can all vote again； Sugar。 When every man who fought for the South can put a ballot in the box for a Southerner and a Democrat。”
“A ballot？” she cried despairingly。 “What good’s a ballot when the darkies have lost their minds—when the Yankees have poisoned them against us？”
Frank went on to explain in his patient manner； but the idea that ballots could cure the trouble was too complicated for her to follow。 She was thinking gratefully that Jonas Wilkerson would never again be a menace of Tara and she was thinking about Tony。
“Oh； the poor Fontaines！” she exclaimed。 “Only Alex left and so much to do at Mimosa。 Why didn’t Tony have sense enough to—to do it at night when no one would know who it was？ A sight more good he’d do helping with the spring plowing than in Texas。”
Frank put an arm about her。 Usually he was gingerly when he did this； as if he anticipated being impatiently shaken off； but tonight there was a far…off look in his eyes and his arm was firm about her waist。
“There are things more important now than plowing； Sugar。 And scaring the darkies and teaching the Scalawags a lesson is one of them。 As long as there are fine boys like Tony left； I guess we won’t need to worry about the South too much。 Come to bed。”
“But； Frank—”
“If we just stand together and don’t give an inch to the Yankees； we’ll win； some day。 Don’t you bother your pretty head about it； Sugar。 You let your men folks worry about it Maybe it won’t come in our time； but surely it will come some day。 The Yankees will get tired of pestering us when they see they can’t even dent us； and then we’ll have a decent world to live in and raise our children in。”
She thought of Wade and the secret she had carried silently for some days。 No； she didn’t want her children raised in this welter of hate and uncertainty； of bitterness and violence lurking just below the surface； of poverty and grinding hardships and insecurity。 She never wanted children of hers to know what all this was like。 She wanted a secure and well…ordered world in which she could look forward and know there was a safe future ahead for them； a world where her children would know only softness and warmth and good clothes and fine food。
Frank thought this could be accomplished by voting。 Voting？ What did votes matter？ Nice people in the South would never have the vote again。 There was only one thing in the world that was a certain bulwark against any calamity which fate could bring； and that was money。 She thought feverishly that they must have money； lots of it to keep them safe against disaster。
Abruptly； she told him she was going to have a baby。
For weeks after Tony’s escape； Aunt Pitty’s house was subjected to repeated searches by parties of Yankee soldiers。 They invaded the house at all hours and without warning。 They swarmed through the rooms； asking questions； opening closets； prodding clothes hampers； peering under beds。 The military authorities had heard that Tony had been advised to go to Miss Pitty’s house； and they were certain he was still hiding there or somewhere in the neighborhood。
As a result； Aunt Pitty was chronically in what Uncle Peter called a “state；” never knowing when her bedroom would be entered by an officer and a squad of men。 Neither Frank nor Scarlett had mentioned Tony’s brief visit； so the old lady could have revealed nothing； even had she been so inclined。 She was entirely honest in her fluttery protestations that she had seen Tony Fontaine only once in her life and that was at Christmas time in 1862。
“And；” she would add breathlessly to the Yankee soldiers； in an effort to be helpful； “he was quite intoxicated at the time。”
Scarlett； sick and miserable in the early stage of pregnancy； alternated between a passionate hatred of the bluecoats who invaded her privacy； frequently carrying away any little knick…knack that appealed to them； and an equally passionate fear that Tony might prove the undoing of them all。 The prisons were full of people who had been arrested for much less reason。 She knew that if one iota of the truth were proved against them； not only she and Frank but the innocent Pitty as well would go to jail。
For some time there had been an agitation in Washington to confiscate all “Rebel property” to pay the United States’ war debt and this agitation had kept Scarlett in a state of anguished apprehension。 Now； in addition to this； Atlanta was full of wild rumors about the confiscation of property of offenders against military law； and Scarlett quaked lest she and Frank lose not only their freedom but the house； the store and the mill。 And even if their property were not appropriated by the military； it would be as good as lost if she and Frank went to jail； for who would look after their business in their absence？
She hated Tony for bringing such trouble upon them。 How could he have done such a thing to friends？ And how could Ashley have sent Tony to them？ Never again would she give aid to anyone if it meant having the Yankees come down on her like a swarm of hornets。 No； she would bar the door against anyone needing help。 Except； of course； Ashley。 For weeks after Tony’s brief visit she woke from uneasy dreams at any sound in the road outside； fearing it might be Ashley trying to make his escape； fleeing to Texas because of the aid he had given Tony。 She did not know how matters stood with him； for they did not dare write to Tara about Tony’s midnight visit。 Their letters might be intercepted by the Yankees and bring trouble upon the plantation as well。 But； when weeks went by and they heard no bad news； they knew that Ashley had somehow come clear。 And finally； the Yankees ceased annoying them。
But even this relief did not free Scarlett from the state of dread which began when Tony came knocking at their door； a dread which was worse than the quaking fear of the siege shells； worse even than the terror of Sherman’s men during the last days of the war。 It was as if Tony’s appearance that wild rainy night had stripped merciful blinders from her eyes and forced her to see the true uncertainty of her life。
Looking about her in that cold spring of 1866； Scarlett realized what was facing her and the whole South。 She might plan and scheme； she might work harder than her slaves had ever worked； she might succeed in overcoming all of her hardships； she might through dint of determination solve problems for which her earlier life had provided no training at all。 But for all her labor and sacrifice and resourcefulness； her small beginnings purchased at so great a cost might be snatched away from her at any minute。 And should this happen； she had no legal rights； no