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.
