Her face went an ugly green, freckles suddenly standing out across her nose and her contorted mouth was like Gerald’s in a killing rage. She sprang to her feet with an incoherent cry which made the hum of voices in the next room cease suddenly. Swift as a panther, Rhett was beside her, his heavy hand across her mouth, his arm tight about her waist. She struggled against him madly, trying to bite his hand, to kick his legs, to scream her rage, despair, hate, her agony of broken pride. She bent and twisted every way against the iron of his arm, her heart near bursting, her tight stays cutting off her breath. He held her so tightly, so roughly that it hurt and the hand over her mouth pinched into her jaws cruelly. His face was white under its tan, his eyes hard and anxious as he lifted her completely off her feet, swung her up against his chest and sat down in the chair, holding her writhing in his lap.
“Darling, for God’s sake! Stop! Hush! Don’t yell. They’ll be in here in a minute if you do. Do calm yourself. Do you want the Yankees to see you like this?”
She was beyond caring who saw her, beyond anything except a fiery desire to kill him, but dizziness was sweeping her. She could not breathe; he was choking her; her stays were like a swiftly compressing band of iron; his arms about her made her shake with helpless hate and fury. Then his voice became thin and dim and his face above her swirled in a sickening mist which became heavier and heavier until she no longer saw him—or anything else.
When she made feeble swimming motions to come back to consciousness, she was tired to her bones, weak, bewildered. She was lying back in the chair, her bonnet off, Rhett was slapping her wrist, his black eyes searching her face anxiously. The nice young captain was trying to pour a glass of brandy into her mouth and had spilled it down her neck. The other officers hovered helplessly about, whispering and waving their hands.
“I—guess I must have fainted,” she said, and her voice sounded so far away it frightened her.
“Drink this,” said Rhett, taking the glass and pushing it against her lips. Now she remembered and glared feebly at him but she was too tired for anger.
“Please, for my sake.”
She gulped and choked and began coughing but he pushed it to her mouth again. She swallowed deeply and the hot liquid burned suddenly in her throat.
“I think she’s better now, gentlemen,” said Rhett, “and I thank you very much. The realization that I’m to be executed was too much for her.”
The group in blue shuffled their feet and looked embarrassed and after several clearings of throats, they tramped out. The young captain paused in the doorway.
“If there’s anything more I can do—”
“No, thank you.”
He went out, closing the door behind him.
“Drink some more,” said Rhett
“No.”
“Drink it.”
She swallowed another mouthful and the warmth began spreading through her body and strength flowed slowly back into her shaking legs. She pushed away the glass and tried to rise but he pressed her back.
“Take your hands off me. I’m going.”
“Not yet. Wait a minute. You might faint again.”
“I’d rather faint in the road than be here with you.”
“Just the same, I won’t have you fainting in the road.”
“Let me go. I hate you.”
A faint smile came back to his face at her words.
“That sounds more like you. You must be feeling better.”
She lay relaxed for a moment, trying to summon anger to her aid, trying to draw on her strength. But she was too tired. She was too tired to hate or to care very much about anything. Defeat lay on her spirit like lead. She had gambled everything and lost everything. Not even pride was left. This was the dead end of her last hope. This was the end of Tara, the end of them all. For a long time she lay back with her eyes closed, hearing his heavy breathing near her, and the glow of the brandy crept gradually over her, giving a false strength and warmth. When finally she opened her eyes and looked him in the face, anger had roused again. As her slanting eyebrows rushed down together in a frown Rhett’s old smile came back.
“Now you are better. I can tell it by your scowl.”
“Of course, I’m all right. Rhett Butler, you are hateful, a skunk, if ever I saw one! You knew very well what I was going to say as soon as I started talking and you knew you weren’t going to give me the money. And yet you let me go right on. You could have spared me—”
“Spared you and missed hearing all that? Not much. I have so few diversions here. I don’t know when I’ve ever heard anything so gratifying.” He laughed his sudden mocking laugh. At the sound she leaped to her feet, snatching up her bonnet.
He suddenly had her by the shoulders.
“Not quite yet. Do you feel well enough to talk sense?”
“Let me go!”
“You are well enough, I see. Then, tell me this. Was I the only iron you had in the fire?” His eyes were keen and alert, watching every change in her face.
“What do you mean?”
“Was I the only man you were going to try this on?”
“Is that any of your business?”
“More than you realize. Are there any other men on your string? Tell me!”
“No.”
“Incredible. I can’t imagine you without five or six in reserve. Surely someone will turn up to accept your interesting proposition. I feel so sure of it that I want to give you a little advice.”
“I don’t want your advice.”
“Nevertheless I will give it. Advice seems to be the only thing I can give you at present. Listen to it, for it’s good advice. When you are trying to get something out of a man, don’t blurt it out as you did to me. Do try to be more subtle, more seductive. It gets better results. You used to know how, to perfection. But just now when you offered me your—er—collateral for my money you looked as hard as nails. I’ve seen eyes like yours above a dueling pistol twenty paces from me and they aren’t a pleasant sight. They evoke no ardor in the male breast. That’s no way to handle men, my dear. You are forgetting your early training.”
