She shrugged in irritation. Perhaps these people were right and she was wrong but， just the same， these proud fools weren’t looking forward as she was doing， straining every nerve， risking even honor and good name to get back what they had lost. It was beneath the dignity of any of them to indulge in a scramble for money. The times were rude and hard. They called for rude and hard struggle if one was to conquer them. Scarlett knew that family tradition would forcibly restrain many of these people from such a struggle—with the making of money admittedly its aim. They all thought that obvious money-making and even talk of money were vulgar in the extreme. Of course， there were exceptions. Mrs. Merriwether and her baking and René driving the pie wagon. And Hugh Elsing cutting and peddling firewood and Tommy contracting. And Frank having the gumption to start a store. But what of the rank and file of them？ The planters would scratch a few acres and live in poverty. The lawyers and doctors would go back to their professions and wait for clients who might never come. And the rest， those who had lived in leisure on their incomes？ What would happen to them？
But she wasn’t going to be poor all her life. She wasn’t going to sit down and patiently wait for a miracle to help her. She was going to rush into life and wrest from it what she could. Her father had started as a poor immigrant boy and had won the broad acres of Tara. What he had done， his daughter could do. She wasn’t like these people who had gambled everything on a Cause that was gone and were content to be proud of having lost that Cause， because it was worth any sacrifice. They drew their courage from the past. She was drawing hers from the future. Frank Kennedy， at present， was her future. At least， he had the store and he had cash money. And if she could only marry him and get her hands on that money， she could make ends meet at Tara for another year. And after that—Frank must buy the sawmill. She could see for herself how quickly the town was rebuilding and anyone who could establish a lumber business now， when there was so little competition， would have a gold mine.
There came to her， from the recesses of her mind， words Rhett had spoken in the early years of the war about the money he made in the blockade. She had not taken the trouble to understand them then， but now they seemed perfectly clear and she wondered if it had been only her youth or plain stupidity which had kept her from appreciating them.
“There’s just as much money to be made in the wreck of a civilization as in the upbuilding of one.”
“This is the wreck he foresaw，” she thought， “and he was right. There’s still plenty of money to be made by anyone who isn’t afraid to work—or to grab.”
She saw Frank coming across the floor toward her with a glass of blackberry wine in his hand and a morsel of cake on a saucer and she pulled her face into a smile. It did not occur to her to question whether Tara was worth marrying Frank. She knew it was worth it and she never gave the matter a second thought.
She smiled up at him as she sipped the wine， knowing that her cheeks were more attractively pink than any of the dancers’. She moved her skirts for him to sit by her and waved her handkerchief idly so that the faint sweet smell of the cologne could reach his nose. She was proud of the cologne， for no other woman in the room was wearing any and Frank had noticed it. In a fit of daring he had whispered to her that she was as pink and fragrant as a rose.
If only he were not so shy！ He reminded her of a timid old brown field rabbit. If only he had the gallantry and ardor of the Tarleton boys or even the coarse impudence of Rhett Butler. But， if he possessed those qualities， he’d probably have sense enough to feel the desperation that lurked just beneath her demurely fluttering eyelids. As it was， he didn’t know enough about women even to suspect what she was up to. That was her good fortune but it did not increase her respect for him.
CHAPTER XXXVI
SHE MARRIED Frank Kennedy two weeks later after a whirlwind courtship which she blushingly told him left her too breathless to oppose his ardor any longer.
He did not know that during those two weeks she had walked the floor at night， gritting her teeth at the slowness with which he took hints and encouragements， praying that no untimely letter from Suellen would reach him and ruin her plans. She thanked God that her sister was the poorest of correspondents， delighting to receive letters and disliking to write them. But there was always a chance， always a chance， she thought in the long night hours as she padded back and forth across the cold floor of her bedroom， with Ellen’s faded shawl clutched about her nightdress. Frank did not know she had received a laconic letter from Will， relating that Jonas Wilkerson had paid another call at Tara and， finding her gone to Atlanta， had stormed about until Will and Ashley threw him bodily off the place. Will’s letter hammered into her mind the fact she knew only too well—that time was getting shorter and shorter before the extra taxes must be paid. A fierce desperation drove her as she saw the days slipping by and she wished she might grasp the hourglass in her hands and keep the sands from running.