minmarn/Gone_with_the_wind · Datasets at Hugging Face

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He wasn't. Sometimes I think he was right and then, again--"

"Oh, Ashley, when will you stop seeing both sides of questions?"
she asked. But she did not speak impatiently as she once would
have done. "No one ever gets anywhere seeing both sides."

"That's true but--Scarlett, just where do you want to get? I've
often wondered. You see, I never wanted to get anywhere at all.
I've only wanted to be myself."

Where did she want to get? That was a silly question. Money and
security, of course. And yet-- Her mind fumbled. She had money
and as much security as one could hope for in an insecure world.
But, now that she thought about it, they weren't quite enough. Now
that she thought about it, they hadn't made her particularly happy,
though they made her less harried, less fearful of the morrow. If
I'd had money and security and you, that would have been where I
wanted to get, she thought, looking at him yearningly. But she did
not speak the words, fearful of breaking the spell that lay between
them, fearful that his mind would close against her.

"You only want to be yourself?" she laughed, a little ruefully.
"Not being myself has always been my hardest trouble! As to where
I want to get, well, I guess I've gotten there. I wanted to be
rich and safe and--"

"But, Scarlett, did it ever occur to you that I don't care whether
I'm rich or not?"

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

He wasn't. Sometimes I think he was right and then, again--"

"Oh, Ashley, when will you stop seeing both sides of questions?"

she asked. But she did not speak impatiently as she once would

have done. "No one ever gets anywhere seeing both sides."

"That's true but--Scarlett, just where do you want to get? I've

often wondered. You see, I never wanted to get anywhere at all.

I've only wanted to be myself."

Where did she want to get? That was a silly question. Money and

security, of course. And yet-- Her mind fumbled. She had money

and as much security as one could hope for in an insecure world.

But, now that she thought about it, they weren't quite enough. Now

that she thought about it, they hadn't made her particularly happy,

though they made her less harried, less fearful of the morrow. If

I'd had money and security and you, that would have been where I

wanted to get, she thought, looking at him yearningly. But she did

not speak the words, fearful of breaking the spell that lay between

them, fearful that his mind would close against her.

"You only want to be yourself?" she laughed, a little ruefully.

"Not being myself has always been my hardest trouble! As to where

I want to get, well, I guess I've gotten there. I wanted to be

rich and safe and--"

"But, Scarlett, did it ever occur to you that I don't care whether

I'm rich or not?"

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