“Ah’m talkin’ ‘bout how it look ter folks, seein’ Miss Pitty livin’ lone. Folks talks scanlous ‘bout maiden ladies dat lives by deyseff,” continued Peter, and it was obvious to his listeners that Pittypat, in his mind, was still a plump and charming miss of sixteen who must be sheltered against evil tongues. “An’ Ah ain’ figgerin’ on havin’ folks criticize her. No, Ma’m. … An’ Ah ain’ figgerin’ on her takin’ in no bo’ders, jes’ fer comp’ny needer. Ah done tole her dat. ‘Not w’ile you got yo’ flesh an’ blood dat belongs wid you,’ Ah says. An’ now her flesh an’ blood denyin’ her. Miss Pitty ain’ nuthin’ but a chile an’—”
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 enclosed 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. It bore the inscription in Ashley’s hand: “Mrs. George Ashley Wilkes, Care Miss Sarah Jane Hamilton, Atlanta, or Twelve Oaks, Jonesboro, Ga.”
With fingers that shook, she opened it and read:
“Beloved, I am coming home to you—”
Tears began to stream down her face so that she could not read and her heart swelled up until she felt she could not bear the joy of it. Clutching the letter to her, she raced up the porch steps and down the hall, past the parlor where an the inhabitants of Tara were getting in one another’s way as they worked over the unconscious Melanie, and into Ellen’s office. She shut the door and locked it and flung herself down on the sagging old sofa crying, laughing, kissing the letter.
“Beloved,” she whispered, “I am coming home to you.”
Common sense told them that unless Ashley developed wings, it would be weeks or even months before he could travel from Illinois to Georgia, but hearts nevertheless beat wildly whenever a soldier turned into the avenue at Tara. Each bearded scarecrow might be Ashley. And if it were not Ashley, perhaps the soldier would have news of him or a letter from Aunt Pitty about him. Black and white, they rushed to the front porch every time they heard footsteps. The sight of a uniform was enough to bring everyone flying from the woodpile, the pasture and the cotton patch. For a month after the letter came, work was almost at a standstill. No one wanted to be out of the house when he arrived. Scarlett least of all. And she could not insist on the others attending to their duties when she so neglected hers.
But when the weeks crawled by and Ashley did not come or any news of him, Tara settled back into its old routine. Longing hearts could only stand so much of longing. An uneasy fear crept into Scarlett’s mind that something had happened to him along the way. Rock Island was so far away and he might have been weak or sick when released from prison. And he had no money and was tramping through a country where Confederates were hated. If only she knew where he was, she would send money to him, send every penny she had and let the family go hungry, so he could come home swiftly on the train.
“Beloved, I am coming home to you.”