He stood aside and bowed her through the door with a mockery that made her wince. She saw that he was coat-less and his cravat hung down on either side of his open collar. His shirt was open down to the thick mat of black hair on his chest. His hair was rumpled and his eyes bloodshot and narrow. One candle burned on the table, a tiny spark of light that threw monstrous shadows about the high-ceilinged room and made the massive sideboards and buffet look like still, crouching beasts. On the table on the silver tray stood the decanter with cut-glass stopper out, surrounded by glasses.
“Sit down,” he said curtly, following her into the room.
Now a new kind of fear crept into her, a fear that made her alarm at facing him seem very small. He looked and talked and acted like a stranger. This was an ill-mannered Rhett she had never seen before. Never at any time, even in most intimate moments, had he been other than nonchalant. Even in anger, he was suave and satirical, and whisky usually served to intensify these qualities. At first it had annoyed her and she had tried to break down that nonchalance but soon she had come to accept it as a very convenient thing. For years she had thought that nothing mattered very much to him, that he thought everything in life, including her, an ironic joke. But as she faced him across the table, she knew with a sinking feeling in her stomach that at last something was mattering to him, mattering very much.
“There is no reason why you should not have your nightcap, even if I am ill bred enough to be at home,” he said. “Shall I pour it for you?”
“I did not want a drink,” she said stiffly. “I heard a noise and came—”
“You heard nothing. You wouldn’t have come down if you’d thought I was home. I’ve sat here and listened to you racing up and down the floor upstairs. You must need a drink badly. Take it.”
“I do not—”
He picked up the decanter and sloshed a glassful, untidily.
“Take it,” he said, shoving it into her hand. “You are shaking all over. Oh, don’t give yourself airs. I know you drink on the quiet and I know how much you drink. For some time I’ve been intending to tell you to stop your elaborate pretenses and drink openly if you want to. Do you think I give a damn if you like your brandy?”
She took the wet glass, silently cursing him. He read her like a book. He had always read her and he was the one man in the world from whom she would like to hide her real thoughts.
“Drink it, I say.”
She raised the glass and bolted the contents with one abrupt motion of her arm, wrist stiff, just as Gerald had always taken his neat whisky, bolted it before she thought how practiced and unbecoming it looked. He did not miss the gesture and his mouth went down at the corner.
“Sit down and we will have a pleasant domestic discussion of the elegant reception we have just attended.”
“You are drunk,” she said coldly, “and I am going to bed.”
“I am very drunk and I intend to get still drunker before the evening’s over. But you aren’t going to bed—not yet. Sit down.”
His voice still held a remnant of its wonted cool drawl but beneath the words she could feel violence fighting its way to the surface, violence as cruel as the crack of a whip. She wavered irresolutely and he was at her side, his hand on her arm in a grip that hurt. He gave it a slight wrench and she hastily sat down with a little cry of pain. Now, she was afraid, more afraid than she had ever been in her life. As he leaned over her, she saw that his face was dark and flushed and his eyes still held their frightening glitter. There was something in their depths she did not recognize, could not understand, something deeper than anger, stronger than pain, something driving him until his eyes glowed redly like twin coals. He looked down at her for a long time, so long that her defiant gaze wavered and fell, and then he slumped into a chair opposite her and poured himself another drink. She thought rapidly, trying to lay a line of defenses. But until he spoke, she would not know what to say for she did not know exactly what accusation he intended to make.
He drank slowly, watching her over the glass and she tightened her nerves, trying to keep from trembling. For a time his face did not change its expression but finally he laughed, still keeping his eyes on her, and at the sound she could not still her shaking.
“It was an amusing comedy, this evening, wasn’t it?” She said nothing, curling her toes in the loose slippers in an effort at controlling her quivering.
“A pleasant comedy with no character missing. The village assembled to stone the erring woman, the wronged husband supporting his wife as a gentleman should, the wronged wife stepping in with Christian spirit and casting the garments of her spotless reputation over it all. And the lover—”
“Please.”
“I don’t please. Not tonight. It’s too amusing. And the lover looking like a damned fool and wishing he were dead. How does it feel, my dear, to have the woman you hate stand by you and cloak your sins for you? Sit down.”
She sat down.
“You don’t like her any better for it, I imagine. You are wondering if she knows all about you and Ashley—wondering why she did this if she does know—if she just did it to save her own face. And you are thinking she’s a fool for doing it, even if it did save your hide but—”
“I will not listen—”
“Yes, you will listen. And I’ll tell you this to ease your worry. Miss Melly is a fool but not the kind you think. It was obvious that someone had told her but she didn’t believe it. Even if she saw, she wouldn’t believe. There’s too much honor in her to conceive of dishonor in anyone she loves. I don’t know what lie Ashley Wilkes told her—but any clumsy one would do, for she loves Ashley and she loves you. I’m sure I can’t see why she loves you but she does. Let that be one of your crosses.”
“If you were not so drunk and insulting, I would explain everything,” said Scarlett, recovering some dignity. “But now—”
