which never failed to make the ladies cry。 Alex Stephens； late Vice…President of the Confederacy； visited whenever in town and； when the word went about that he was at Melanie’s； the house was filled and people sat for hours under the spell of the frail invalid with the ringing voice。 Usually there were a dozen children present； nodding sleepily in their parents’ arms； up hours after their normal bedtime。 No family wanted its children to miss being able to say in after years that they had been kissed by the great Vice…President or had shaken the hand that helped to guide the Cause。 Every person of importance who came to town found his way to the Wilkes home and often they spent the night there。 It crowded the little flat…topped house； forced India to sleep on a pallet in the cubbyhole that was Beau’s nursery and sent Dilcey speeding through the back hedge to borrow breakfast eggs from Aunt Pitty’s Cookie； but Melanie entertained them as graciously as if hers was a mansion。
No； it did not occur to Melanie that people rallied round her as round a worn and loved standard。 And so she was both astounded and embarrassed when Dr。 Meade； after a pleasant evening at her house where he acquitted himself nobly in reading the part of Macbeth； kissed her hand and made observations in the voice he once used in speaking of Our Glorious Cause。
“My dear Miss Melly； it is always a privilege and a pleasure to be in your home； for you—and ladies like you—are the hearts of all of us； all that we have left。 They have taken the flower of our manhood and the laughter of our young women。 They have broken our health； uprooted our lives and unsettled our habits。 They have ruined our prosperity； set us back fifty years and placed too heavy a burden on the shoulders of our boys who should be in school and our old men who should be sleeping in the sun。 But we will build back； because we have hearts like yours to build upon。 And as long as we have them； the Yankees can have the rest！”
Until Scarlett’s figure reached such proportions that even Aunt Pitty’s big black shawl did not conceal her condition； she and Frank frequently slipped through the back hedge to join the summer…night gatherings on Melanie’s porch。 Scarlett always sat well out of the light； hidden in the protecting shadows where she was not only inconspicuous but could； unobserved； watch Ashley’s face to her heart’s content。
It was only Ashley who drew her to the house； for the conversations bored and saddened her。 They always followed a set pattern—first； hard times； next； the political situation； and then； inevitably； the war。 The ladies bewailed the high prices of everything and asked the gentlemen if they thought good times would ever come back。 And the omniscient gentlemen always said； indeed they would。 Merely a matter of time。 Hard times were just temporary。 The ladies knew the gentlemen were lying and the gentlemen knew the ladies knew they were lying。 But they lied cheerfully just the same and the ladies pretended to believe them。 Everyone knew hard times were here to stay。
Once the hard times were disposed of； the ladies spoke of the increasing impudence of the negroes and the outrages of the Carpetbaggers and the humiliation of having the Yankee soldiers loafing on every corner。 Did the gentlemen think the Yankees would ever get through with reconstructing Georgia？ The reassuring gentlemen thought Reconstruction would be over in no time—that is； just as soon as the Democrats could vote again。 The ladies were considerate enough not to ask when this would be。 And having finished with politics； the talk about the war began。
Whenever two former Confederates met anywhere； there was never but one topic of conversation； and where a dozen or more gathered together； it was a foregone conclusion that the war would be spiritedly refought。 And always the word “if” had the most prominent part in the talk。
“If England had recognized us—” “If Jeff Davis had commandeered all the cotton and gotten it to England before the blockade tightened—” “If Longstreet had obeyed orders at Gettysburg—” “If Jeb Stuart hadn’t been away on that raid when Marse Bob needed him—” “If we hadn’t lost Stonewall Jackson—” “If Vicksburg hadn’t fallen—” “If we could have held on another year—” And always： “If they hadn’t replaced Johnston with Hood—” or “If they’d put Hood in command at Dalton instead of Johnston—”
If！ If！ The soft drawling voices quickened with an old excitement as they talked in the quiet darkness—infantryman； cavalryman； cannoneer； evoking memories of the days when life was ever at high tide； recalling the fierce heat of their midsummer in this forlorn sunset of their winter。
‘They don’t talk of anything else；” thought Scarlett。 “Nothing but the war。 Always the war。 And they’ll never talk of anything but the war。 No； not until they die。”
She looked about； seeing little boys lying in the crooks of their fathers’ arms； breath coming fast； eyes glowing； as they heard of midnight stories and wild cavalry dashes and flags planted on enemy breastworks。 They were hearing drums and bugles and the Rebel yell； seeing footsore men going by in the rain with torn flags slanting。
“And these children will never talk of anything else either。 They’ll think it was wonderful and glorious to fight the Yankees and come home blind and crippled—or not come home at all。 They all like to remember the war； to talk about it。 But I don’t。 I don’t even like to think about it。 I’d forget it all if I could—oh； if I only could！”
She listened with flesh crawling as Melanie told tales of Tara； making Scarlett a heroine as she faced the invaders and saved Charles’ sword； bragging how Scarlett had put out the fire。 Scarlett took no pleasure or pride in the memory of these things。 She did not want to think of them at all。
“Oh； why can’t they forget？ Why can’t they look forward and not back？ We were fools to fight that war。 And the sooner we forget it； the better we’ll be。”
But no one wanted to forget； no one； it seemed； except herself； so Scarlett was glad when she could truthfully tell Melanie that she was embarrassed at appearing； even in the darkness。 This explanation was readily understood by Melanie who was hypersensitive about all matters relating to childbirth。 Melanie wanted another baby badly； but both Dr。 Meade and Dr。 Fontaine had said another child would cost her her life。 So； only half resigned to her fate； she spent most of her time with Scarlett； vicariously enjoying a pregnancy not her own。 To Scarlett； scarcely wanting her coming child and irritated at its untimeliness； this attitude seemed the height of sentimental stupidity。 But she had a guilty sense of pleasure that the doctors’ edict had made impossible any real intimacy between Ashley and his wife。
Scarlett saw Ashley frequently now but she never saw him alone。 He came by the house every night on his way home from the mill to report on the day’s work； but Frank and Pitty were usually present or； worse still； Melanie and India。 She could only ask businesslike questions and make suggestions and then say： “It was nice of you to come by。 Good night。”
If only she wasn’t having a baby！ Here was a God…given opportunity to ride out to the mill with him every morning； through the lonely woods； far from prying eyes； where they could imagine themselves back In the County again in the unhurried days before the war。
No； she wouldn’t try to make him say one word of love！ She wouldn’t refer to love in any way。 She’d sworn an oath to herself that she would never do that again。 But； perhaps if she were alone with him once more； he might drop that mask of impersonal courtesy he had worn since coming to Atlanta。 Perhaps he might be his old self again； be the Ashley she had known before the barbecue； before any word of love had been spoken between them。 If they could not be lovers； they could be friends again and she could warm her cold and lonely heart in the glow of his friendship。
“If only I could get this baby over and done with；” she thought impatiently； “then I could ride with him every day and we could talk—”
It was not only the desire to be with him that made her writhe with helpless impatience at her confinement。 The mills needed her。 The mills had been losing money ever since she retired from active supervision； leaving Hugh and Ashley in charge。
Hugh was so incompetent； for all that he tried so hard。 He was a poor trader and a poorer boss of labor。 Anyone could Jew him down on prices。 If any slick contractor chose to say that the lumber was of an inferior grade and not worth the price asked； Hugh felt that all a gentleman could do was to apologize and take a lower price。 When she heard of the price he received for a thousand feet of flooring； she burst into angry tears。 The best grade of flooring the mill had ever turned out and he had practically given it away！ And he couldn’t manage his labor crews。 The negroes insisted on being paid every day and they frequently got drunk on their wages and did not turn up for work the next morning。 On these occasions Hugh was forced to hunt up new workmen and the mill was late in starting。 With these difficulties Hugh didn’t get into town to sell the lumber for days on end。
Seeing the profits slip from Hugh’s fingers； Scarlett became frenzied at her impotence and his stupidity。 Just as soon as the baby was born and she could go back to work； she would get rid of Hugh and hire some one else。 Anyone would do better。 And she would never fool with free niggers again。 How could anyone get any work done with free niggers quitting all the time？
“Frank；” she said； after a stormy interview with Hugh over his missing workmen； I’ve about made up my mind that I’ll lease convicts to work the mills。 A while back I was talking to Johnnie Gallegher； Tommy Wellburn’s foreman； about the trouble we were having getting any work out of the darkies and he asked me why I didn’t get convicts。 It sounds like a good idea to me。 He said I could sublease them for next to nothing and feed them dirt cheap。 And he said I could get work out of them in any way I liked； without having the Freedman’s Bureau swarming down on me l