In the garden swing and making her squeal with laughter. Deeply

distressed, Ellen had told her how easily a widow might get

herself talked about. The conduct of a widow must be twice as

circumspect as that of a matron.

"And God only knows," thought Scarlett, listening obediently to

her mother's soft voice, "matrons never have any fun at all. So

widows might as well be dead."

A widow had to wear hideous black dresses without even a touch of

braid to enliven them, no flower or ribbon or lace or even

jewelry, except onyx mourning brooches or necklaces made from the

deceased's hair. And the black crepe veil on her bonnet had to

reach to her knees, and only after three years of widowhood could

it be shortened to shoulder length. Widows could never chatter

vivaciously or laugh aloud. Even when they smiled, it must be a

sad, tragic smile. And, most dreadful of all, they could in no

way indicate an interest in the company of gentlemen. And should

a gentleman be so ill bred as to indicate an interest in her, she

must freeze him with a dignified but well-chosen reference to her

dead husband. Oh, yes, thought Scarlett, drearily, some widows do

remarry eventually, when they are old and stringy. Though Heaven

knows how they manage it, with their neighbors watching. And then

it's generally to some desperate old widower with a large

plantation and a dozen children.

Marriage was bad enough, but to be widowed--oh, then life was over

forever! How stupid people were when they talked about what a

comfort little Wade Hampton must be to her, now that Charles was

gone. How stupid of them to say that now she had something to

live for! Everyone talked about how sweet it was that she had

this posthumous token of her love and she naturally did not

disabuse their minds. But that thought was farthest from her

mind. She had very little interest in Wade and sometimes it was

difficult to remember that he was actually hers.

Every morning she woke up and for a drowsy moment she was Scarlett

O'Hara again and the sun was bright in the magnolia outside her

window and the mockers were singing and the sweet smell of frying

bacon was stealing to her nostrils. She was carefree and young

again. Then she heard the fretful hungry wail and always--always

there was a startled moment when she thought: "Why, there's a

baby in the house!" Then she remembered that it was her baby. It

was all very bewildering.

And Ashley! Oh, most of all Ashley! For the first time in her

life, she hated Tara, hated the long red road that led down the

hill to the river, hated the red fields with springing green

cotton. Every foot of ground, every tree and brook, every lane

and bridle path reminded her of him. He belonged to another woman

and he had gone to the war, but his ghost still haunted the roads

In the twilight, still smiled at her from drowsy gray eyes in the

shadows of the porch. She never heard the sound of hooves coming

up the river road from Twelve Oaks that for a sweet moment she did

not think--Ashley!

She hated Twelve Oaks now and once she had loved it. She hated it

but she was drawn there, so she could hear John Wilkes and the

girls talk about him--hear them read his letters from Virginia.

They hurt her but she had to hear them. She disliked the stiff-

necked India and the foolish prattling Honey and knew they

disliked her equally, but she could not stay away from them. And

every time she came home from Twelve Oaks, she lay down on her bed

morosely and refused to get up for supper.