In the garden at Twelve Oaks and said: "I won't look back," she

had set her face against the past.

"I like these days better," she said. But she did not meet his

eyes as she spoke. "There's always something exciting happening

now, parties and so on. Everything's got a glitter to it. The old

days were so dull." (Oh, lazy days and warm still country

twilights! The high soft laughter from the quarters! The golden

warmth life had then and the comforting knowledge of what all

tomorrows would bring! How can I deny you?)

"I like these days better," she said but her voice was tremulous.

He slipped from the table, laughing softly in unbelief. Putting

his hand under her chin, he turned her face up to his.

"Ah, Scarlett, what a poor liar you are! Yes, life has a glitter

now--of a sort. That's what's wrong with it. The old days had no

glitter but they had a charm, a beauty, a slow-paced glamour."

Her mind pulled two ways, she dropped her eyes. The sound of his

Voice, the touch of his hand were softly unlocking doors that she

had locked forever. Behind those doors lay the beauty of the old

days, and a sad hunger for them welled up within her. But she knew

that no matter what beauty lay behind, it must remain there. No

one could go forward with a load of aching memories.

His hand dropped from her chin and he took one of her hands between

his two and held it gently.

"Do you remember," he said--and a warning bell in her mind rang:

Don't look back! Don't look back!

But she swiftly disregarded it, swept forward on a tide of

happiness. At last she was understanding him, at last their minds

had met. This moment was too precious to be lost, no matter what

pain came after.

"Do you remember," he said and under the spell of his voice the

bare walls of the little office faded and the years rolled aside

and they were riding country bridle paths together in a long-gone

spring. As he spoke, his light grip tightened on her hand and in

his voice was the sad magic of old half-forgotten songs. She could

hear the gay jingle of bridle bits as they rode under the dogwood

trees to the Tarletons' picnic, hear her own careless laughter, see

the sun glinting on his silver-gilt hair and note the proud easy

grace with which he sat his horse. There was music in his voice,

the music of fiddles and banjos to which they had danced in the

white house that was no more. There was the far-off yelping of

possum dogs in the dark swamp under cool autumn moons and the smell

of eggnog bowls, wreathed with holly at Christmas time and smiles

on black and white faces. And old friends came trooping back,

laughing as though they had not been dead these many years: Stuart

and Brent with their long legs and their red hair and their

practical jokes, Tom and Boyd as wild as young horses, Joe Fontaine

with his hot black eyes, and Cade and Raiford Calvert who moved

with such languid grace. There was John Wilkes, too; and Gerald,

red with brandy; and a whisper and a fragrance that was Ellen.

Over it all rested a sense of security, a knowledge that tomorrow

could only bring the same happiness today had brought.

His voice stopped and they looked for a long quiet moment into each

other's eyes and between them lay the sunny lost youth that they

had so unthinkingly shared.

"Now I know why you can't be happy," she thought sadly. "I never

understood before. I never understood before why I wasn't

altogether happy either. But--why, we are talking like old people

talk!" she thought with dreary surprise. "Old people looking back

fifty years. And we're not old! It's just that so much has

happened in between. Everything's changed so much that it seems

like fifty years ago. But we're not old!"

But when she looked at Ashley he was no longer young and shining.

His head was bowed as he looked down absently at her hand which he

still held and she saw that his once bright hair was very gray,

silver gray as moonlight on still water. Somehow the bright beauty

had gone from the April afternoon and from her heart as well and

the sad sweetness of remembering was as bitter as gall.

"I shouldn't have let him make me look back," she thought

despairingly. "I was right when I said I'd never look back. It

hurts too much, it drags at your heart till you can't ever do

anything else except look back. That's what's wrong with Ashley.

He can't look forward any more. He can't see the present, he fears

the future, and so he looks back. I never understood it before. I

never understood Ashley before. Oh, Ashley, my darling, you

shouldn't look back! What good will it do? I shouldn't have let

you tempt me into talking of the old days. This is what happens

when you look back to happiness, this pain, this heartbreak, this

discontent."

She rose to her feet, her hand still in his. She must go. She

could not stay and think of the old days and see his face, tired

and sad and bleak as it now was.

"We've come a long way since those days, Ashley," she said, trying

to steady her voice, trying to fight the constriction in her

throat. "We had fine notions then, didn't we?" And then, with a

rush, "Oh, Ashley, nothing has turned out as we expected!"

"It never does," he said. "Life's under no obligation to give us

what we expect. We take what we get and are thankful it's no worse

than it is."

Her heart was suddenly dull with pain, with weariness, as she

thought of the long road she had come since those days. There rose

up in her mind the memory of Scarlett O'Hara who loved beaux and

pretty dresses and who intended, some day, when she had the time,

to be a great lady like Ellen.

Without warning, tears started in her eyes and rolled slowly down

her cheeks and she stood looking at him dumbly, like a hurt

bewildered child. He said no word but took her gently in his arms,

pressed her head against his shoulder and, leaning down, laid his

cheek against hers. She relaxed against him and her arms went

round his body. The comfort of his arms helped dry her sudden

tears. Ah, it was good to be in his arms, without passion, without

tenseness, to be there as a loved friend. Only Ashley who shared

her memories and her youth, who knew her beginnings and her present

could understand.

She heard the sound of feet outside but paid little heed, thinking

it was the teamsters going home. She stood for a moment, listening

to the slow beat of Ashley's heart. Then suddenly he wrenched

himself from her, confusing her by his violence. She looked up

into his face in surprise but he was not looking at her. He was

looking over her shoulder at the door.

She turned and there stood India, white faced, her pale eyes

blazing, and Archie, malevolent as a one-eyed parrot. Behind them

stood Mrs. Elsing.

How she got out of the office she never remembered. But she went

instantly, swiftly, by Ashley's order, leaving Ashley and Archie in

grim converse in the little room and India and Mrs. Elsing outside

with their backs to her. Shame and fear sped her homeward and, in

her mind, Archie with his patriarch's beard assumed the proportions

of an avenging angel straight from the pages of the Old Testament.

The house was empty and still in the April sunset. All the

servants had gone to a funeral and the children were playing in

Melanie's back yard. Melanie--

Melanie! Scarlett went cold at the thought of her as she climbed

the stairs to her room. Melanie would hear of this. India had

said she would tell her. Oh, India would glory in telling her, not

caring if she blackened Ashley's name, not caring if she hurt

Melanie, if by so doing she could injure Scarlett! And Mrs. Elsing

would talk too, even though she had really seen nothing, because

she was behind India and Archie in the door of the lumber office.

But she would talk, just the same. The news would be all over town

by supper time. Everyone, even the negroes, would know by

tomorrow's breakfast. At the party tonight, women would gather in

corners and whisper discreetly and with malicious pleasure.

Scarlett Butler tumbled from her high and mighty place! And the

story would grow and grow. There was no way of stopping it. It

wouldn't stop at the bare facts, that Ashley was holding her in his

arms while she cried. Before nightfall people would be saying she

had been taken in adultery. And it had been so innocent, so sweet!

Scarlett thought wildly: If we had been caught that Christmas of

his furlough when I kissed him good-by--if we had been caught in

the orchard at Tara when I begged him to run away with me--oh, if

we'd been caught any of the times when we were really guilty, it

wouldn't be so bad! But now! Now! When I went to his arms as a

friend--

But no one would believe that. She wouldn't have a single friend

to take her part, not a single voice would be raised to say: "I

don't believe she was doing anything wrong." She had outraged old

friends too long to find a champion among them now. Her new

friends, suffering in silence under her insolences, would welcome a

chance to blackguard her. No, everybody would believe anything

about her, though they might regret that so fine a man as Ashley

Wilkes was mixed up in so dirty an affair. As usual they would

cast the blame upon the woman and shrug at the man's guilt. And in

this case they would be right. She had gone into his arms.

Oh, she could stand the cuts, the slights, the covert smiles,

anything the town might say, if she had to stand them--but not

Melanie! Oh, not Melanie! She did not know why she should mind

Melanie knowing, more than anyone else. She was too frightened and

weighed down by a sense of past guilt to try to understand it. But

she burst into tears at the thought of what would be in Melanie's

eyes when India told her that she had caught Ashley fondling

Scarlett. And what would Melanie do when she knew? Leave Ashley?

What else could she do, with any dignity? And what will Ashley and