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- Маргарет Митчелл
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- Стр. 557/927
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She
let
him
kiss
her
and
the
two
men
went
out
into
the
driving
rain
and
stood
for
a
moment
,
talking
on
the
back
porch
.
Then
she
heard
a
sudden
splashing
of
hooves
and
Tony
was
gone
.
She
opened
the
door
a
crack
and
saw
Frank
leading
a
heaving
,
stumbling
horse
into
the
carriage
house
.
She
shut
the
door
again
and
sat
down
,
her
knees
trembling
.
Now
she
knew
what
Reconstruction
meant
,
knew
as
well
as
if
the
house
were
ringed
about
by
naked
savages
,
squatting
in
breech
clouts
.
Now
there
came
rushing
to
her
mind
many
things
to
which
she
had
given
little
thought
recently
,
conversations
she
had
heard
but
to
which
she
had
not
listened
,
masculine
talk
which
had
been
checked
half
finished
when
she
came
into
rooms
,
small
incidents
in
which
she
had
seen
no
significance
at
the
time
,
Frank
's
futile
warnings
to
her
against
driving
out
to
the
mill
with
only
the
feeble
Uncle
Peter
to
protect
her
.
Now
they
fitted
themselves
together
into
one
horrifying
picture
.
The
negroes
were
on
top
and
behind
them
were
the
Yankee
bayonets
.
She
could
be
killed
,
she
could
be
raped
and
,
very
probably
,
nothing
would
ever
be
done
about
it
.
And
anyone
who
avenged
her
would
be
hanged
by
the
Yankees
,
hanged
without
benefit
of
trial
by
judge
and
jury
.
Yankee
officers
who
knew
nothing
of
law
and
cared
less
for
the
circumstances
of
the
crime
could
go
through
the
motions
of
holding
a
trial
and
put
a
rope
around
a
Southerner
's
neck
.
"
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
Scallawag
to
protect
his
women
folks
?
"
"
It
is
n't
to
be
borne
!
"
Tony
had
cried
and
he
was
right
.
It
could
n'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
is
n'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
was
n'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
.
