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thing is worth what is happening to us now and what may happen； for if the Yankees whip us the future will be one of incredible horror。 And； my dear； they may yet whip us。
“I should not write those words。 I should not even think them。 But you have asked me what was in my heart； and the fear of defeat is there。 Do you remember at the barbecue； the day our engagement was announced； that a man named Butler； a Charlestonian by his accent； nearly caused a fight by his remarks about the ignorance of Southerners？ Do you recall how the twins wanted to shoot him because he said we had few foundries and factories； mills and ships； arsenals and machine shops？ Do you recall how he said the Yankee fleet could bottle us up so tightly we could not ship out our cotton？ He was right。 We are fighting the Yankees’ new rifles with Revolutionary War muskets； and soon the blockade will be too tight for even medical supplies to slip in。 We should have paid heed to cynics like Butler who knew； instead of statesmen who felt—and talked。 He said； in effect； that the South had nothing with which to wage war but cotton and arrogance。 Our cotton is worthless and what he called arrogance is all that is left。 But I call that arrogance matchless courage。 If—”
But Scarlett carefully folded up the letter without finishing it and thrust it back into the envelope； too bored to read further。 Besides； the tone of the letter vaguely depressed her with its foolish talk of defeat。 After all； she wasn’t reading Melanie’s mail to learn Ashley’s puzzling and uninteresting ideas。 She had had to listen to enough of them when he sat on the porch at Tara in days gone by。
All she wanted to know was whether he wrote impassioned letters to his wife。 So far he had not。 She had read every letter in the writing box and there was nothing in any one of them that a brother might not have written to a sister。 They were affectionate； humorous； discursive； but not the letters of a lover。 Scarlett had received too many ardent love letters herself not to recognize the authentic note of passion when she saw it。 And that note was missing。 As always after her secret readings； a feeling of smug satisfaction enveloped her； for she felt certain that Ashley still loved her。 And always she wondered sneeringly why Melanie did not realize that Ashley only loved her as a friend。 Melanie evidently found nothing lacking in her husband’s messages but Melanie had had no other man’s love letters with which to compare Ashley’s”
“He writes such crazy letters；” Scarlett thought “If ever any husband of mine wrote me such twaddle…twaddle； he’d certainly hear from me！ Why； even Charlie wrote better letters than these。”
She flipped back the edges of the letters； looking at the dates； remembering their contents。 In them there were no fine descriptive pages of bivouacs and charges such as Darcy Meade wrote his parents or poor Dallas McLure had written his old…maid sisters； Misses Faith and Hope。 The Meades and McLures proudly read these letters all over the neighborhood； and Scarlett had frequently felt a secret shame that Melanie had no such letters from Ashley to read aloud at sewing circles。
It was as though when writing Melanie； Ashley tried to ignore the war altogether； and sought to draw about the two of them a magic circle of timelessness； shutting out everything that had happened since Fort Sumter was the news of the day。 It was almost as if he were trying to believe there wasn’t any war。 He wrote of books which he and Melanie had read and songs they had sung； of old friends they knew and places he had visited on his Grand Tour。 Through the letters ran a wistful yearning to be back home at Twelve Oaks； and for pages he wrote of the hunting and the long rides through the still forest paths under frosty autumn stars； the barbecues； the fish fries； the quiet of moonlight nights and the serene charm of the old house。
She thought of his words in the letter she had just read： “Not this！ Never this！” and they seemed to cry of a tormented soul facing something he could not face； yet must face。 It puzzled her for； if he was not afraid of wounds and death； what was it he feared？ Unanalytical； she struggled with the complex thought。
“The war disturbs him and he—he doesn’t like things that disturb him。 。。。 Me； for instance。 。。。 He loved me but he was afraid to marry me because—for fear I’d upset his way of thinking and living。 No； it wasn’t exactly that he was afraid。 Ashley isn’t a coward。 He couldn’t be when he’s been mentioned in dispatches and when Colonel Sloan wrote that letter to Melly all about his gallant conduct in leading the charge。 Once he’s made up his mind to do something； no one could be braver or more determined but— He lives inside his head instead of outside in the world and he hates to come out into the world and— Oh； I don’t know what it is！ If I’d just understood this one thing about him years ago； I know he’d have married me。”
She stood for a moment holding the letters to her breast； thinking longingly of Ashley。 Her emotions toward him had not changed since the day when she first fell in love with him。 They were the same emotions that struck her speechless that day when she was fourteen years old and she had stood on the porch of Tara and seen Ashley ride up smiling； his hair shining silver in the morning sun。 Her love was still a young girl’s adoration for a man she could not understand； a man who possessed all the qualities she did not own but which she admired。 He was still a young girl’s dream of the Perfect Knight and her dream asked no more than acknowledgment of his love； went no further than hopes of a kiss。
After reading the letters； she felt certain he did love her； Scarlett； even though he had married Melanie； and that certainty was almost all that she desired。 She was still that young and untouched。 Had Charles with his fumbling awkwardness and his embarrassed intimacies tapped any of the deep vein of passionate feeling within her； her dreams of Ashley would not be ending with a kiss。 But those few moonlight nights alone with Charles had not touched her emotions or ripened her to maturity。 Charles had awakened no idea of what passion might be or tenderness or true intimacy of body or spirit。
All that passion meant to her was servitude to inexplicable male madness； unshared by females； a painful and embarrassing process that led inevitably to the still more painful process of childbirth。 That marriage should be like this was no surprise to her。 Ellen had hinted before the wedding that marriage was something women must bear with dignity and fortitude； and the whispered comments of other matrons since her widowhood had confirmed this。 Scarlett was glad to be done with passion and marriage。
She was done with marriage but not with love； for her love for Ashley was something different； having nothing to do with passion or marriage； something sacred and breathtakingly beautiful； an emotion that grew stealthily through the long days of her enforced silence； feeding on oft…thumbed memories and hopes。
She sighed as she carefully tied the ribbon about the packet； wondering for the thousandth time just what it was in Ashley that eluded her understanding。 She tried to think the matter to some satisfactory conclusion but； as always； the conclusion evaded her uncomplex mind。 She put the letters back in the lap secretary and closed the lid。 Then she frowned； for her mind went back to the last part of the letter she had just read； to his mention of Captain Butler。 How strange that Ashley should be impressed； by something that scamp had said a year ago。 Undeniably Captain Butler was a scamp； for all that he danced divinely。 No one but a scamp would say the things about the Confederacy that he had said at the bazaar。
She crossed the room to the mirror and parted her smooth hair approvingly。 Her spirits rose； as always at the sight of her white skin and slanting green eyes； and she smiled to bring out her dimples。 Then she dismissed Captain Butler from her mind as she happily viewed her reflection； remembering how Ashley had always liked her dimples。 No pang of conscience at loving another woman’s husband or reading that woman’s