Though she recovered physically from Wade’s birth in a disgracefully short time， mentally she was dazed and sick. Her spirits drooped， despite the efforts of the whole plantation to revive them. Ellen went about with a puckered， worried forehead and Gerald swore more frequently than usual and brought her useless gifts from Jonesboro. Even old Dr. Fontaine admitted that he was puzzled， after his tonic of sulphur， molasses and herbs failed to perk her up. He told Ellen privately that it was a broken heart that made Scarlett so irritable and listless by turns. But Scarlett， had she wished to speak， could have told them that it was a far different and more complex trouble. She did not tell them that it was utter boredom， bewilderment at actually being a mother and， most of all， the absence of Ashley that made her look so woebegone.
Her boredom was acute and ever present. The County had been devoid of any entertainment or social life ever since the Troop had gone away to war. All of the interesting young men were gone—the four Tarletons， the two Calverts， the Fontaines， the Munroes and everyone from Jonesboro， Fayetteville and Lovejoy who was young and attractive. Only the older men， the cripples and the women were left， and they spent their time knitting and sewing， growing more cotton and corn， raising more hogs and sheep and cows for the army. There was never a sight of a real man except when the commissary troop under Suellen’s middle-aged beau， Frank Kennedy， rode by every month to collect supplies. The men in the commissary were not very exciting， and the sight of Frank’s timid courting annoyed her until she found it difficult to be polite to him. If he and Suellen would only get it over with！
Even if the commissary troop had been more interesting， it would not have helped her situation any. She was a widow and her heart was in the grave. At least， everyone thought it was in the grave and expected her to act accordingly. This irritated her for， try as she would， she could recall nothing about Charles except the dying-calf look on his face when she told him she would marry him. And even that picture was fading. But she was a widow and she had to watch her behavior. Not for her the pleasures of unmarried girls. She had to be grave and aloof. Ellen had stressed this at great length after catching Frank’s lieutenant swinging Scarlett in the garden swing and making her squeal with laughter. Deeply distressed， Ellen had told her how easily a widow might get herself talked about. The conduct of a widow must be twice as circumspect as that of a matron.
“And God only knows，” thought Scarlett， listening obediently to her mother’s soft voice， “matrons never have any fun at all. So widows might as well be dead.”
A widow had to wear hideous black dresses without even a touch of braid to enliven them， no flower or ribbon or lace or even jewelry， except onyx mourning brooches or necklaces made from the deceased’s hair. And the black crêpe veil on her bonnet had to reach to her knees， and only after three years of widowhood could it be shortened to shoulder length. Widows could never chatter vivaciously or laugh aloud. Even when they smiled， it must be a sad， tragic smile. And， most dreadful of all， they could in no way indicate an interest in the company of gentlemen. And should a gentleman be so ill bred as to indicate an interest in her， she must freeze him with a dignified but well-chosen reference to her dead husband. Oh， yes， thought Scarlett， drearily， some widows do remarry eventually， when they are old and stringy. Though Heaven knows how they manage it， with their neighbors watching. And then it’s generally to some desperate old widower with a large plantation and a dozen children.
Marriage was bad enough， but to be widowed—oh， then life was over forever！ How stupid people were when they talked about what a comfort little Wade Hampton must be to her， now that Charles was gone. How stupid of them to say that now she had something to live for！ Everyone talked about how sweet it was that she had this posthumous token of her love and she naturally did not disabuse their minds. But that thought was farthest from her mind. She had very little interest in Wade and sometimes it was difficult to remember that he was actually hers.
Every morning she woke up and for a drowsy moment she was Scarlett O’Hara again and the sun was bright in the magnolia outside her window and the mockers were singing and the sweet smell of frying bacon was stealing to her nostrils. She was carefree and young again. Then she heard the fretful hungry wail and always—always there was a startled moment when she thought： “Why， there’s a baby in the house！” Then she remembered that it was her baby. It was all very bewildering.