"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--"