At this, Scarlett and Melly whooped louder and sank down to the steps.
Finally Melly wiped tears of mirth from her eyes.
“Poor Uncle Peter!
I’m sorry I laughed.
Really and truly.
There! Do forgive me.
Miss Scarlett and I just can’t come home now.
Maybe I’ll come in September after the cotton is picked.
Did Auntie send you all the way down here just to bring us back on that bag of bones?”
At this question, Peter’s jaw suddenly dropped and guilt and consternation swept over his wrinkled black face.
His protruding underlip retreated to normal as swiftly as a turtle withdraws its head beneath its shell.
“Miss Melly. Ah is gittin’ ole, Ah spec', ‘cause Ah clean fergit fer de moment whut she sent me fer, an’ it’s important too.
Ah got a letter fer you.
Miss Pitty wouldn’ trust de mails or nobody but me ter bring it an’—”
“A letter?
For me?
Who from?”
“Well'm, it’s—Miss Pitty, she says ter me,
‘You, Peter, you brek it gen'ly ter Miss Melly,’ an’ Ah say—”
Melly rose from the steps, her hand at her heart.
“Ashley!
Ashley!
He’s dead!”
“No'm! No'm!” cried Peter, his voice rising to a shrill bawl, as he fumbled in the breast pocket of his ragged coat.
“He’s ‘live!
Disyere a letter frum him.
He comin’ home.
He-Gawdlmighty! Ketch her, Mammy!
Lemme—”
“Doan you tech her, you ole fool!” thundered Mammy, struggling to keep Melanie’s sagging body from falling to the ground.
“You pious black ape!
Brek it gen'ly!
You, Poke, tek her feet.
Miss Carreen, steady her haid.
Lessus lay her on de sofa in de parlor.”
There was a tumult of sound as everyone but Scarlett swarmed about the fainting Melanie, everyone crying out in alarm, scurrying into the house for water and pillows, and in a moment Scarlett and Uncle Peter were left standing alone on the walk.
She stood rooted, unable to move from the position to which she had leaped when she heard his words, staring at the old man who stood feebly waving a letter.
His old black face was as pitiful as a child’s under its mother’s disapproval, his dignity collapsed.
For a moment she could not speak or move, and though her mind shouted:
“He isn’t dead!
He’s coming home!” the knowledge brought neither joy nor excitement, only a stunned immobility.
Uncle Peter’s voice came as from a far distance, plaintive, placating.
“Mist’ Willie Burr frum Macom whut is kin ter us, he brung it ter Miss Pitty.
Mist’ Willie he in de same jail house wid Mist’ Ashley.
Mist’ Willie he got a hawse an’ he got hyah soon.
But Mist’ Ashley he a-walkin’ an’—”
Scarlett snatched the letter from his hand.
It was addressed to Melly in Miss Pitty’s writing but that did not make her hesitate a moment.
She ripped it open and Miss Pitty’s inclosed note fell to the ground.
Within the envelope there was a piece of folded paper, grimy from the dirty pocket in which it had been carried, creased and ragged about the edges.