No, it had never occurred to her that anyone would not want to be rich.
“Then, what do you want?”
“I don’t know, now. I knew once but I’ve half forgotten. Mostly to be left alone, not to be harried by people I don’t like, driven to do things I don’t want to do. Perhaps—I want the old days back again and they’ll never come back, and I am haunted by the memory of them and of the world falling about my ears.”
Scarlett set her mouth obstinately. It was not that she did not know what he meant. The very tones of his voice called up other days as nothing else could, made her heart hurt suddenly, as she too remembered. But since the day she had lain sick and desolate in the garden at Twelve Oaks and said: “I won’t look back,” she had set her face against the past.
“I like these days better,” she said. But she did not meet his eyes as she spoke. “There’s always something exciting happening now, parties and so on. Everything’s got a glitter to it. The old days were so dull.” (Oh, lazy days and warm still country twilights! The high soft laughter from the quarters! The golden warmth life had then and the comforting knowledge of what all tomorrows would bring! How can I deny you?)“I like these days better,” she said but her voice was tremulous.
He slipped from the table, laughing softly in unbelief. Putting his hand under her chin, he turned her face up to his.
“Ah, Scarlett, what a poor liar you are! Yes, life has a glitter now—of a sort That’s what’s wrong with it. The old days had no glitter but they had a charm, a beauty, a slow-paced glamour.”
Her mind pulled two ways, she dropped her eyes. The sound of his voice, the touch of his hand were softly unlocking doors that she had locked forever. Behind those doors lay the beauty of the old days, and a sad hunger for them welled up within her. But she knew that no matter what beauty lay behind, it must remain there. No one could go forward with a load of aching memories.
His hand dropped from her chin and he took one of her hands between his two and held it gently.
“Do you remember,” he said—and a warning bell in her mind rang: Don’t look back! Don’t look back!
But she swiftly disregarded it, swept forward on a tide of happiness. At last she was understanding him, at last their minds had met. This moment was too precious to be lost, no matter what pain came after.
“Do you remember,” he said and under the spell of his voice the bare walls of the’little office faded and the years rolled aside and they were riding country bridle paths together in a long-gone spring. As he spoke, his light grip tightened on her hand and in his voice was the sad magic of old half-forgotten songs. She could hear the gay jingle of bridle bits as they rode under the dogwood trees to the Tarletons’ picnic, hear her own careless laughter, see the sun glinting on his silver-gilt hair and note the proud easy grace with which he sat his horse. There was music in his voice, the music of fiddles and banjos to which they had danced in the white house that was no more. There was the far-off yelping of possum dogs in the dark swamp under cool autumn moons and the smell of eggnog bowls, wreathed with holly at Christmas time and smiles on black and white faces. And old friends came trooping back, laughing as though they had not been dead these many years: Stuart and Brent with their long legs and their red hair and their practical jokes, Tom and Boyd as wild as young horses, Joe Fontaine with his hot black eyes, and Cade and Raiford Calvert who moved with such languid grace. There was John Wilkes, too; and Gerald, red with brandy; and a whisper and a fragrance that was Ellen. Over it all rested a sense of security, a knowledge that tomorrow could only bring the same happiness today had brought.
His voice stopped and they looked for a long quiet moment into each other’s eyes and between them lay the sunny lost youth that they had so unthinkingly shared.
“Now I know why you can’t be happy,” she thought sadly. “I never understood before. I never understood before why I wasn’t altogether happy either. But—why, we are talking like old people talk!” she thought with dreary surprise. “Old people looking back fifty years. And we’re not old! It’s just that so much has happened in between. Everything’s changed so much that it seems like fifty years ago. But we’re not old!”
But when she looked at Ashley he was no longer young and shining. His head was bowed as he looked down absently at her hand which he still held and she saw that his once bright hair was very gray, silver gray as moonlight on still water. Somehow the bright beauty had gone from the April afternoon and from her heart as well and the sad sweetness of remembering was as bitter as gall.
“I shouldn’t have let him make me look back,” she thought despairingly. “I was right when I said I’d never look back. It hurts too much, it drags at your heart till you can’t ever do anything else except look back. That’s what’s wrong with Ashley. He can’t look forward any more. He can’t see the present, he fears the future, and so he looks back. I never understood it before. I never understood Ashley before. Oh, Ashley, my darling, you shouldn’t look back! What good will it do? I shouldn’t have let you tempt me into talking of the old days. This is what happens when you look back to happiness, this pain, this heartbreak, this discontent.”
She rose to her feet, her hand still in his. She must go. She could not stay and think of the old days and see his face, tired and sad and bleak as it now was.
“We’ve come a long way since those days, Ashley,” she said, trying to steady her voice, trying to fight the constriction in her throat. “We had fine notions then, didn’t we?” And then, with a rush, “Oh, Ashley, nothing has turned out as we expected!”
“It never does,” he said. “Life’s under no obligation to give us what we expect. We take what we get and are thankful it’s no worse than it is.”
