The moss-green velvet curtains felt prickly and soft beneath her cheek and she rubbed her face against them gratefully, like a cat And then suddenly she looked at them.
A minute later, she was dragging a heavy marble-topped table across the floor. Its rusty castors screeching in protest. She rolled the table under the window, gathered up her skirts, climbed on it and tiptoed to reach the heavy curtain pole. It was almost out of her reach and she jerked at it so impatiently the nails came out of the wood, and the curtains, pole and all, fell to the floor with a clatter.
As if by magic, the door of the parlor opened and the wide black face of Mammy appeared, ardent curiosity and deepest suspicion evident in every wrinkle. She looked disapprovingly at Scarlett, poised on the table top, her skirts above her knees, ready to leap to the floor. There was a look of excitement and triumph on her face which brought sudden distrust to Mammy.
“Whut you up to wid Miss Ellen’s po’teers?” she demanded.
“What are you up to listening outside doors?” asked Scarlett, leaping nimbly to the floor and gathering up a length of the heavy dusty velvet.
“Dat ain’ needer hyah no dar,” countered Mammy, girding herself for combat “You ain’ got no bizness wid Miss Ellen’s po’teers, juckin’ de poles plum outer de wood, an’ drappin’ dem on de flo’ in de dust. Miss Ellen set gret sto’ by dem po’teers an’ Ah ain’ ‘tendin’ ter have you muss dem up dat way.”
Scarlett turned green eyes on Mammy, eyes which were feverishly gay, eyes which looked like the bad little girl of the good old days Mammy sighed about.
“Scoot up to the attic and get my box of dress patterns, Mammy,” she cried, giving her a slight shove. “I’m going to have a new dress.”
Mammy was torn between indignation at the very idea of her two hundred pounds scooting anywhere, much less to the attic, and the dawning of a horrid suspicion. Quickly she snatched the curtain lengths from Scarlett, holding them against her monumental, sagging breasts as if they were holy relics.
“Not outer Miss Ellen’s po’teers is you gwine have a new dress, ef dat’s whut you figgerin’ on. Not wile Ah got breaf in mah body.”
For a moment the expression Mammy was won’t to describe to herself as “bullheaded” flitted over her young mistress’ face and then it passed into a smile, so difficult for Mammy to resist. But it did not fool the old woman. She knew Miss Scarlett was employing that smile merely to get around her and in this matter she was determined not to be gotten around.
“Mammy, don’t be mean. I’m going to Atlanta to borrow some money and I’ve got to have a new dress.”
“You doan need no new dress. Ain’ no other ladies got new dresses. Dey weahs dey ole ones an’ dey weahs dem proudfully. Ain’ no reason why Miss Ellen’s chile kain weah rags ef she wants ter, an’ eve’ybody respec’ her lak she wo’ silk.”
The bullheaded expression began to creep back. Lordy, ‘twus right funny how de older Miss Scarlett git de mo’ she look lak Mist’ Gerald and de less lak Miss Ellen!
“Now, Mammy, you know Aunt Pitty wrote us that Miss Fanny Elsing is getting married this Saturday, and of course I’ll go to the wedding. And I’ll need a new dress to wear.”
“De dress you got on’ll be jes’ as nice as Miss Fanny’s weddin’ dress. Miss Pitty done wrote dat de Elsings mighty po’.”
“But I’ve got to have a new dress! Mammy, you don’t know how we need money. The taxes—”
“Yas’m, Ah knows all ‘bout de taxes but—”
“You do?”
“Well’m, Gawd give me ears, din’ he, an’ ter hear wid? Specially w’en Mist’ Will doan never tek trouble ter close de do’.”
Was there nothing Mammy did not overhear? Scarlett wondered how that ponderous body which shook the floors could move with such savage stealth when its owner wished to eavesdrop.
“Well, if you heard all that, I suppose you heard Jonas Wilkerson and that Emmie—”
“Yas’m,” said Mammy with smoldering eyes.
“Well, don’t be a mule, Mammy. Don’t you see I’ve got to go to Atlanta and get money for the taxes? I’ve got to get some money. I’ve got to do it!” She hammered one small fist into the other. “Name of God, Mammy, they’ll turn us all out into the road and then where’ll we go? Are you going to argue with me about a little matter of Mother’s curtains when that trash Emmie Slattery who killed Mother is fixing to move into this house and sleep in the bed Mother slept in?”
Mammy shifted from one foot to another like a restive elephant. She had a dim feeling that she was being got around.
“No’m, Ah ain’ wantin’ ter see trash in Miss Ellen’s house or us all in de road but—” She fixed Scarlett with a suddenly accusing eye: “Who is you fixin’ ter git money frum dat you needs a new dress?”
“That,” said Scarlett, taken aback, “is my own business.”
Mammy looked at her piercingly, just as she had done when Scarlett was small and had tried unsuccessfully to palm off plausible excuses for misdeeds. She seemed to be reading her mind and Scarlett dropped her eyes unwillingly, the first feeling of guilt at her intended conduct creeping over her.
“So you needs a spang new pretty dress ter borry money wid. Dat doan lissen jes’ right ter me. An’ you ain’ sayin’ whar de money ter come frum.”
“I’m not saying anything,” said Scarlett indignantly. “It’s my own business. Are you going to give me that curtain and help me make the dress?”
“Yas’m,” said Mammy softly, capitulating with a suddenness which aroused all the suspicion in Scarlett’s mind. “Ah gwine he’p you mek it an’ Ah specs we mout git a petticoat outer de satin linin’ of de po’teers an’ trim a pa’r pantalets wid de lace cuttins.”
She handed the velvet curtain back to Scarlett and a sly smile spread over her face.
“Miss Melly gwine ter ‘Lanta wid you, Miss Scarlett?”
“No,” said Scarlett sharply, beginning to realize what was coming. “I’m going by myself.”
“Dat’s whut you thinks,” said Mammy firmly, “but Ah is gwine wid you an’ dat new dress. Yas, Ma’m, eve’y step of de way.”
