After a long while Prissy came into view, alone, switching her skirts from side to side and looking over her shoulder to observe the effect.
“You’re as slow as molasses in January,” snapped Scarlett as Prissy opened the gate.
“What did Mrs. Meade say?
How soon will she be over here?”
“She warn’t dar,” said Prissy.
“Where is she?
When will she be home?”
“Well'm,” answered Prissy, dragging out her words pleasurably to give more weight to her message. “Dey Cookie say Miss Meade done got wud early dis mawnin’ dat young Mist’ Phil done been shot an’ Miss Meade she tuck de cah'ige an’ Ole Talbot an’ Betsy an’ dey done gone ter fotch him home.
Cookie say he bad hurt an’ Miss Meade ain’ gwine ter be studyin’ ’bout comin’ up hyah.”
Scarlett stared at her and had an impulse to shake her.
Negroes were always so proud of being the bearers of evil tidings.
“Well, don’t stand there like a ninny.
Go down to Mrs. Merriwether’s and ask her to come up or send her mammy.
Now, hurry.”
“Dey ain’ dar, Miss Scarlett.
Ah drapped in ter pass time of de day wid Mammy on mah way home.
Dey’s done gone.
House all locked up.
Spec dey’s at de horsepittle.”
“So that’s where you were so long!
Whenever I send you somewhere you go where I tell you and don’t stop to ‘pass any time’ with anybody.
Go—”
She stopped and racked her brain.
Who was left in town among their friends who would be helpful?
There was Mrs. Elsing.
Of course, Mrs. Elsing didn’t like her at all these days but she had always been fond of Melanie.
“Go to Mrs. Elsing’s, and explain everything very carefully and tell her to please come up here.
And, Prissy, listen to me.
Miss Melly’s baby is due and she may need you any minute now.
Now you hurry right straight back.”
“Yas’m,” said Prissy and, turning, sauntered down the walk at snail’s gait.
“Hurry, you slow poke!”
“Yas’m.”
Prissy quickened her gait infinitesimally and Scarlett went back into the house.
She hesitated again before going upstairs to Melanie.
She would have to explain to her just why Mrs. Meade couldn’t come and the knowledge that Phil Meade was badly wounded might upset her.
Well, she’d tell a lie about it.
She entered Melanie’s room and saw that the breakfast tray was untouched.
Melanie lay on her side, her face white.
“Mrs. Meade’s over at the hospital,” said Scarlett.
“But Mrs. Elsing is coming.
Do you feel bad?”
“Not very,” lied Melanie.
“Scarlett, how long did it take Wade to get born?”
“Less than no time,” answered Scarlett with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling.
“I was out in the yard and I didn’t hardly have time to get into the house.
Mammy said it was scandalous—just like one of the darkies.”
“I hope I’ll be like one of the darkies too,” said Melanie, mustering a smile which suddenly disappeared as pain contorted her face.
Scarlett looked down at Melanie’s tiny hips with none too sanguine hopes but said reassuringly:
“Oh, it’s not really so bad.”