She went up the walk somehow， the arm she was holding as hard and steady as granite， communicating to her some courage. By God， she could face them and she would. What were they but a bunch of howling， clawing cats who were jealous of her？ She’d show them. She didn’t care what they thought. Only Melanie—only Melanie.
They were on the porch and Rhett was bowing right and left， his hat in his hand， his voice cool and soft. The music stopped as they entered and the crowd of people seemed to her confused mind to surge up to her like the roar of the sea and then ebb away， with lessening， ever-lessening sound. Was everyone going to cut her？ Well， God’s nightgown， let them do it！ Her chin went up and she smiled， the corners of her eyes crinkling.
Before she could turn to speak to those nearest the door， someone came through the press of people. There was an odd hush that caught Scarlett’s heart. Then through the lane came Melanie on small feet that hurried， hurried to meet Scarlett at the door， to speak to her before anyone else could speak. Her narrow shoulders were squared and her small jaw set indignantly and， for all her notice， she might have had no other guest but Scarlett. She went to her side and slipped an arm about her waist.
“What a lovely dress， darling，” she said in her small， clear voice. “Will you be an angel？ India was unable to come tonight and assist me. Will you receive with me？”
CHAPTER LIV
SAFE IN HER ROOM AGAIN， Scarlett fell on the bed， careless of her moiré dress， bustle and roses. For a time she could only lie still and think of standing between Melanie and Ashley， greeting guests. What a horror！ She would face Sherman’s army again rather than repeat that performance！ After a time， she rose from the bed and nervously paced the floor， shedding garments as she walked.
Reaction from strain set in and she began to shake. Hairpins slipped out of her fingers and tinkled to the floor and when she tried to give her hair its customary hundred strokes， she banged the back of the brush hurtingly against her temple. A dozen times she tiptoed to the door to listen for noises downstairs but the hall below lay like a black silent pit.
Rhett had sent her home alone in the carriage when the party was over and she had thanked God for the reprieve. He had not come in yet Thank God， he had not come in. She could not face him tonight， shamed， frightened， shaking. But where was he？ Probably at that creature’s place. For the first time， Scarlett was glad there was such a person as Belle Watling. Glad there was some other place than this house to shelter Rhett until his glittering， murderous mood had passed. That was wrong， being glad a husband was at the house of a prostitute， but she could not help it. She would be almost glad if he were dead， if it meant she would not have to see him tonight.
Tomorrow—well， tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow she would think of some excuse， some counter accusations， some way of putting Rhett in the wrong. Tomorrow the memory of this hideous night would not be driving her so fiercely that she shook. Tomorrow she would not be so haunted by the memory of Ashley’s face， his broken pride and his shame—shame that she had caused， shame in which he had so little part. Would he hate her now， her darling honorable Ashley， because she had shamed him？ Of course he would hate her now—now that they had both been saved by the indignant squaring of Melanie’s thin shoulders and the love and outspoken trust which had been in her voice as she crossed the glassy floor to slip her arm through Scarlett’s and face the curious， malicious， covertly hostile crowd. How neatly Melanie had scotched the scandal， keeping Scarlett at her side all through the dreadful evening！ People had been a bit cool， somewhat bewildered， but they had been polite.
Oh， the ignominy of it all， to be sheltered behind Melanie’s skirts from those who hated her， who would have torn her to bits with their whispers！ To be sheltered by Melanie’s blind trust， Melanie of all people！
Scarlett shook as with a chill at the thought. She must have a drink， a number of drinks before she could lie down and hope to sleep. She threw a wrapper about her gown and went hastily out into the dark hall， her backless slippers making a great clatter in the stillness. She was halfway down the stairs before she looked toward the closed door of the dining room and saw a narrow line of light streaming from under it. Her heart stopped for a moment Had that light been burning when she came home and had she been too upset to notice it？ Or was Rhett home after all？ He could have come in quietly through the kitchen door. If Rhett were home， she would tiptoe back to bed without her brandy， much as she needed it. Then she wouldn’t have to face him. Once in her room she would be safe， for she could lock the door.
She was leaning over to pluck off her slippers， so she might hurry back in silence， when the dining-room door swung open abruptly and Rhett stood silhouetted against the dim candlelight behind him. He looked huge， larger than she had ever seen him， a terrifying faceless black bulk that swayed slightly on its feet.
“Pray join me， Mrs. Butler，” he said and his voice was a little thick.
He was drunk and showing it and she had never before seen him show his liquor， no matter how much he drank. She paused irresolutely， saying nothing and his arm went up in gesture of command.
“Come here， damn you！” he said roughly.
He must be very drunk， she thought with a fluttering heart. Usually， the more he drank， the more polished became his manners. He sneered more， his words were apt to be more biting， but the manner that accompanied them was always punctilious—too punctilious.
“I must never let him know I’m afraid to face him，” she thought， and， clutching the wrapper closer to her throat she went down the stairs with her head up and her heels clacking noisily.
