WITHIN TWO WEEKS Scarlett had become a wife, and within two months
more she was a widow. She was soon released from the bonds she had
assumed with so much haste and so little thought, but she was never again
to know the careless freedom of her unmarried days. Widowhood had
crowded closely on the heels of marriage but, to her dismay, motherhood
soon followed.
In after years when she thought of those last days of April, 1861,
Scarlett could never quite remember details. Time and events were
telescoped, jumbled together like a nightmare that had no reality or reason.
Till the day she died there would be blank spots in her memory of those
days. Especially vague were her recollections of the time between her
acceptance of Charles and her wedding. Two weeks! So short an
engagement would have been impossible in times of peace. Then there
would have been a decorous interval of a year or at least six months. But
the South was aflame with war, events roared along as swiftly as if carried
by a mighty wind and the slow tempo of the old days was gone. Ellen had
wrung her hands and counseled delay, in order that Scarlett might think
the matter over at greater length. But to her pleadings, Scarlett turned a
sullen face and a deaf ear. Marry she would! And quickly too. Within two
weeks.
Learning that Ashley’s wedding had been moved up from the autumn to
the first of May, so he could leave with the Troop as soon as it was called
into service, Scarlett set the date of her wedding for the day before his.
Ellen protested but Charles pleaded with new-found eloquence, for he was
impatient to be off to South Carolina to join Wade Hampton’s Legion, and
Gerald sided with the two young people. He was excited by the war fever
and pleased that Scarlett had made so good a match, and who was he to
stand in the way of young love when there was a war? Ellen, distracted,
finally gave in as other mothers throughout the South were doing. Their
leisured world had been turned topsy-turvy, and their pleadings, prayers and
advice availed nothing against the powerful forces sweeping them along.
The South was intoxicated with enthusiasm and excitement. Everyone
knew that one battle would end the war and every young man hastened to
enlist before the war should end—hastened to marry his sweetheart before
he rushed off to Virginia to strike a blow at the Yankees. There were dozens
of war weddings in the County and there was little time for the sorrow of
parting, for everyone was too busy and excited for either solemn thoughts
or tears. The ladies were making uniforms, knitting socks and rolling
bandages, and the men were drilling and shooting. Train loads of troops
passed through Jonesboro daily on their way north to Atlanta and Virginia.
Some detachments were gaily uniformed in the scarlets and light blues and
greens of select social-militia companies; some small groups were in
homespun and coonskin caps; others, ununiformed, were in broadcloth and
fine linen; all were half-drilled, half-armed, wild with excitement and
shouting as though en route to a picnic. The sight of these men threw the
County boys into a panic for fear the war would be over before they could
reach Virginia, and preparations for the Troop’s departure were speeded.
In the midst of this turmoil, preparations went forward for Scarlett’s
wedding and, almost before she knew it, she was clad in Ellen’s wedding
dress and veil, coming down the wide stairs of Tara on her father’s arm, to
face a house packed full with guests. Afterward she remembered, as from a
dream, the hundreds of candles flaring on the walls, her mother’s face,
loving, a little bewildered, her lips moving in a silent prayer for her
daughter’s happiness, Gerald flushed with brandy and pride that his
daughter was marrying both money, a fine name and an old one—and
Ashley, standing at the bottom of the steps with Melanie’s arm through his.
When she saw the look on his face, she thought: “This can’t be real. It
can’t be. It’s a nightmare. I’ll wake up and find it’s all been a nightmare. I
mustn’t think of it now, or I’ll begin screaming in front of all these people. I
can’t think now. I’ll think later, when I can stand it—when I can’t see his
eyes.”
It was all very dreamlike, the passage through the aisle of smiling people,
Charles’ scarlet face and stammering voice and her own replies, so
startlingly clear, so cold. And the congratulations afterward and the kissing
and the toasts and the dancing—all, all like a dream. Even the feel of
Ashley’s kiss upon her cheek, even Melanie’s soft whisper, “Now, we’re
really and truly sisters,” were unreal. Even the excitement caused by the
swooning spell that overtook Charles’ plump emotional aunt, Miss Pittypat
Hamilton, had the quality of a nightmare.
But when the dancing and toasting were finally ended and the dawn was
coming, when all the Atlanta guests who could be crowded into Tara and
the overseer’s house had gone to sleep on beds, sofas and pallets on the
floor and all the neighbors had gone home to rest in preparation for the
wedding at Twelve Oaks the next day, then the dreamlike trance shattered
like crystal before reality. The reality was the blushing Charles, emerging
from her dressing room in his nightshirt, avoiding the startled look she
gave him over the high-pulled sheet.
Of course, she knew that married people occupied the same bed but she
had never given the matter a thought before. It seemed very natural in the
case of her mother and father, but she had never applied it to herself. Now
for the first time since the barbecue she realized just what she had brought
on herself. The thought of this strange boy whom she hadn’t really wanted
to marry getting into bed with her, when her heart was breaking with an
agony of regret at her hasty action and the anguish of losing Ashley forever,
was too much to be borne. As he hesitatingly approached the bed she
spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“I’ll scream out loud if you come near me. I will! I will—at the top of my
voice! Get away from me! Don’t you dare touch me!”
So Charles Hamilton spent his wedding night in an armchair in the
corner, not too unhappily, for he understood, or thought he understood, the
modesty and delicacy of his bride. He was willing to wait until her fears
subsided, only—only—He sighed as he twisted about seeking a comfortable
position, for he was going away to the war so very soon.
Nightmarish as her own wedding had been, Ashley’s wedding was even
worse. Scarlett stood in her apple-green “second-day” dress in the parlor of
Twelve Oaks amid the blaze of hundreds of candles, jostled by the same
throng as the night before, and saw the plain little face of Melanie
Hamilton glow into beauty as she became Melanie Wilkes. Now, Ashley
was gone forever. Her Ashley. No, not her Ashley now. Had he ever been
hers? It was all so mixed up in her mind and her mind was so tired, so
bewildered. He had said he loved her, but what was it that had separated
them? If she could only remember. She had stilled the County’s gossiping
tongue by marrying Charles, but what did that matter now? It had seemed
so important once, but now it didn’t seem important at all. All that
mattered was Ashley. Now he was gone and she was married to a man she
not only did not love but for whom she had an active contempt.
Oh, how she regretted it all. She had often heard of people cutting off
their noses to spite their faces but heretofore it had been only a figure of
speech. Now she knew just what it meant. And mingled with her frenzied
desire to be free of Charles and safely back at Tara, an unmarried girl again,
ran the knowledge that she had only herself to blame. Ellen had tried to
stop her and she would not listen.
So she danced through the night of Ashley’s wedding in a daze and said
things mechanically and smiled and irrelevantly wondered at the stupidity
of people who thought her a happy bride and could not see that her heart
was broken. Well, thank God, they couldn’t see!
That night after Mammy had helped her undress and had departed and
Charles had emerged shyly from the dressing room, wondering if he was to
spend a second night in the horsehair chair, she burst into tears. She cried
until Charles climbed into bed beside her and tried to comfort her, cried
without words until no more tears would come and at last she lay sobbing
quietly on his shoulder.
If there had not been a war, there would have been a week of visiting
about the County, with balls and barbecues in honor of the two newly
married couples before they set off to Saratoga or White Sulphur for
wedding trips. A week after the wedding Charles left to join Colonel Wade
Hampton, and two weeks later Ashley and the Troop departed, leaving the
whole County bereft.
In those two weeks, Scarlett never saw Ashley alone, never had a
private word with him. Not even at the terrible moment of parting, when
he stopped by Tara on his way to the train, did she have a private talk.
Melanie, bonneted and shawled, sedate in newly acquired matronly dignity,
hung on his arm and the entire personnel of Tara, black and white, turned
out to see Ashley off to the war.
Melanie said: “You must kiss Scarlett, Ashley. She’s my sister now,” and
Ashley bent and touched her cheek with cold lips, his face drawn and taut.
Scarlett could hardly take any joy from that kiss, so sullen was her heart at
Melly’s prompting it. Melanie smothered her with an embrace at parting.
“You will come to Atlanta and visit me and Aunt Pittypat, won’t you?
Oh, darling, we want to have you so much! We want to know Charlie’s
wife better.”
Five weeks passed during which letters, shy, ecstatic, loving, came from
Charles in South Carolina telling of his love, his plans for the future when
the war was over, his desire to become a hero for her sake and his worship
of his commander, Wade Hampton. In the seventh week, there came a
telegram from Colonel Hampton himself, and then a letter, a kind,
dignified letter of condolence. Charles was dead. The colonel would have
wired earlier, but Charles, thinking his illness a trifling one, did not wish to
have his family worried. The unfortunate boy had been cheated not only of
the love he thought he had won but also of his high hopes of honor and
glory on the field of battle. He had died ignominiously and swiftly of
pneumonia, following measles, without ever having gotten any closer to
the Yankees than the camp in South Carolina.
In due time, Charles’ son was born and, because it was fashionable to
name boys after their fathers’ commanding officers, he was called Wade
Hampton Hamilton. Scarlett had wept with despair at the knowledge that
she was pregnant and wished that she were dead. But she carried the child
through its time with a minimum of discomfort, bore him with little
distress and recovered so quickly that Mammy told her privately it was
downright common—ladies should suffer more. She had not wanted him
and she resented his coming and, now that he was here, it did not seem
possible that he was hers, a part of her.
Though she recovered physically from Wade’s birth in a disgracefully
short time, mentally she was dazed and sick. Her spirits drooped, despite
the efforts of the whole plantation to revive them. Ellen went about with a
puckered, worried forehead and Gerald swore even more frequently than
usual and brought her useless gifts from Jonesboro. Even old Dr. Fontaine
admitted that he was puzzled, after his tonic of sulphur, molasses and herbs
failed to perk her up. He told Ellen privately that it was a broken heart that
made Scarlett so irritable and listless by turns. But Scarlett, had she wished
to speak, could have told them that it was a far different and more complex
trouble. She did not tell them that it was utter boredom, bewilderment at
actually being a mother and, most of all, the absence of Ashley that made
her look so woebegone.
Her boredom was acute and ever present. The County had been devoid
of any entertainment or social life ever since the Troop had gone away to
war. All of the interesting young men were gone—the four Tarletons, the
two Calverts, the Fontaines, the Munroes and everyone from Jonesboro,
Fayetteville and Lovejoy who was young and attractive. Only the older
men, the cripples and the women were left, and they spent their time
knitting and sewing, growing more cotton and corn, raising more hogs and
sheep and cows for the army. There was never a sight of a real man except
when the commissary troop under Suellen’s middle-aged beau, Frank
Kennedy, rode by every month to collect supplies. The men in the
commissary were not very exciting, and the sight of Frank’s timid courting
annoyed her until she found it difficult to be polite to him. If he and
Suellen would only get it over with!
Even if the commissary troop had been more interesting, it would not
have helped her situation any. She was a widow and her heart was in the
grave. At least, everyone thought it was in the grave and expected her to
act accordingly. This irritated her for, try as she could, she could recall
nothing about Charles except the dying-calf look on his face when she told
him she would marry him. And even that picture was fading. But she was a
widow and she had to watch her behavior. Not for her the pleasures of
unmarried girls. She had to be grave and aloof. Ellen had stressed this at
great length after catching Frank’s lieutenant swinging Scarlett 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 crêpe 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.
It was this refusal of food that worried Ellen and Mammy more than
anything else. Mammy brought up tempting trays, insinuating that now she
was a widow she might eat as much as she pleased, but Scarlett had no
appetite.
When Dr. Fontaine told Ellen gravely that heartbreak frequently led to
a decline and women pined away into the grave, Ellen went white, for that
fear was what she had carried in her heart.
“Isn’t there anything to be done, Doctor?”
“A change of scene will be the best thing in the world for her,” said the
doctor, only too anxious to be rid of an unsatisfactory patient.
So Scarlett, unenthusiastic, went off with her child, first to visit her
O’Hara and Robillard relatives in Savannah and then to Ellen’s sisters,
Pauline and Eulalie, in Charleston. But she was back at Tara a month
before Ellen expected her, with no explanation of her return. They had
been kind in Savannah, but James and Andrew and their wives were old
and content to sit quietly and talk of a past in which Scarlett had no
interest. It was the same with the Robillards, and Charleston was terrible,
Scarlett thought.
Aunt Pauline and her husband, a little old man, with a formal, brittle
courtesy and the absent air of one living in an older age, lived on a
plantation on the river, far more isolated than Tara. Their nearest neighbor
was twenty miles away by dark roads through still jungles of cypress swamp
and oak. The live oaks with their waving curtains of gray moss gave
Scarlett the creeps and always brought to her mind Gerald’s stories of Irish
ghosts roaming in shimmering gray mists. There was nothing to do but knit
all day and at night listen to Uncle Carey read aloud from the improving
works of Mr. Bulwer-Lytton.
Eulalie, hidden behind a high-walled garden in a great house on the
Battery in Charleston, was no more entertaining. Scarlett, accustomed to
wide vistas of rolling red hills, felt that she was in prison. There was more
social life here than at Aunt Pauline’s, but Scarlett did not like the people
who called, with their airs and their traditions and their emphasis on
family. She knew very well they all thought she was a child of a mésalliance
and wondered how a Robillard ever married a newly come Irishman.
Scarlett felt that Aunt Eulalie apologized for her behind her back. This
aroused her temper, for she cared no more about family than her father. She
was proud of Gerald and what he had accomplished unaided except by his
shrewd Irish brain.
And the Charlestonians took so much upon themselves about Fort
Sumter! Good Heavens, didn’t they realize that if they hadn’t been silly
enough to fire the shot that started the war some other fools would have
done it? Accustomed to the brisk voices of upland Georgia, the drawling
flat voices of the low country seemed affected to her. She thought if she
ever again heard voices that said “paams” for “palms” and “hoose” for
“house” and “woon’t” for “won’t” and “Maa and Paa” for “Ma and Pa,” she
would scream. It irritated her so much that during one formal call she aped
Gerald’s brogue to her aunt’s distress. Then she went back to Tara. Better to
be tormented with memories of Ashley than Charleston accents.
Ellen, busy night and day, doubling the productiveness of Tara to aid the
Confederacy, was terrified when her eldest daughter came home from
Charleston thin, white and sharp tongued. She had known heartbreak
herself, and night after night she lay beside the snoring Gerald, trying to
think of some way to lessen Scarlett’s distress. Charles’ aunt, Miss Pittypat
Hamilton, had written her several times, urging her to permit Scarlett to
come to Atlanta for a long visit, and now for the first time Ellen considered
it seriously.
She and Melanie were alone in a big house “and without male
protection,” wrote Miss Pittypat, “now that dear Charlie has gone. Of
course, there is my brother Henry but he does not make his home with us.
But perhaps Scarlett has told you of Henry. Delicacy forbids my putting
more concerning him on paper. Melly and I would feel so much easier and
safer if Scarlett were with us. Three lonely women are better than two.
And perhaps dear Scarlett could find some ease for her sorrow, as Melly is
doing, by nursing our brave boys in the hospitals here—and, of course,
Melly and I are longing to see the dear baby.…”
So Scarlett’s trunk was packed again with her mourning clothes and off
she went to Atlanta with Wade Hampton and his nurse Prissy, a headful of
admonitions as to her conduct from Ellen and Mammy and a hundred
dollars in Confederate bills from Gerald. She did not especially want to go
to Atlanta. She thought Aunt Pitty the silliest of old ladies and the very
idea of living under the same roof with Ashley’s wife was abhorrent. But
the County with its memories was impossible now, and any change was
welcome.
PART TWO
