minmarn/Gone_with_the_wind · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 75
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.

He stood aside and bowed her through the door with a mockery that
made her wince. She saw that he was coatless 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."

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.

He stood aside and bowed her through the door with a mockery that

made her wince. She saw that he was coatless 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."