Due to the roundabout way they had to travel, because of swamps and small streams over which there were no bridges, it was well along in the afternoon when they reached Orangeburg. They came into the city from the south, over a long bridge stretching across a swamp through which the waters flowed like a river. The Edisto River, however, was at the town edge of the swamp, a narrow dark stream, deep and mysterious, bending in and out on the border of the town. Across this the car rattled and sped along the highway into the center of the old city.
Stores lined the main street, that ran from the river clear across the town and into the adjoining country on the other side, after crossing the railroad track. On the river side of the town its boundary was fringed with small houses of the poorer residents, with a section adjoining in which the colored population lived. Most of the large stores were on Main Street in this section, having spread toward the river from the Court House and yard in the center of a small mall.
This mall and Court House were historic, having stood since Colonial days, the center of all life of the town and fenced in, by tall trees growing about it. At the rear, two churches raised their tall spires while in front was the imposing new post office building, the better class barber shops of the town, a couple of the main stores and the High School for white pupils. On the other sides were a drug store, and residences of some of the older families. Main Street divided itself at the mall so as to take in the square then rejoined itself on the further side.
Along the continuation of this street for about a mile toward the railroad were the wide residential estates of the older families, the Sallees, the Dibbles, the Felders, the Motts and the Harleys. Beautiful southern estates, well preserved, with their Colonial and slave day traditions seeming to show in the very austerity and dignity of the gate-posts and driveways.
There were a few stores conducted by Negroes on the opposite sides of the street, a large livery stable or two, two garages and other less pretentious residences. All other streets either paralleled this or crossed it at right angles. Across the railroad on the left was what had once been a park owned by Claflin University, a school for Negroes. This had been divided now into house lots and dwellings erected. At the rear of this were other old residences, and a farm belonging to the State College; while to the north and back from the section, opposite the low squat station was what remained of Claflin University with its campus. Opposite and beyond this stretching out into the country were farm lands owned by the two institutions, residences of other wealthy families, including the Andrewses and Websters, from carpet bag days.
Orangeburg boasted of but one hotel, situated near the Court House, it was here that all the county gathered to trade news and horses, or other products up for barter. To this the chauffeur drove Dr Tansey and Bennet.
"Well, Boy," Dr. Tansey said as their luggage was carried in. "You're in the heart of the south now. Here's where I leave you for a time. You will continue on to the country for your girl and I'll hunt germs. Go cautiously. Keep your head, and your tongue, get your girl and get out. That's my advice. See and don't see."
Lida Lauriston was indignant at the manner in which Miss Gregory hurried her out of town, when commencement was over, and bundled her into a train headed for her southern home. She would have been still more indignant had the girl known the real cause for the hurry. From the staid old New England town, to New York, Lida's every thought was of Bennet and the desire she had to remain with him a little longer. The more she thought the more indignation burned at her heart. She planned and replanned the many things of which she would write him. When New York was reached she handed the porter a letter to be mailed. In this was her heart. She told of her sorrow at leaving him, her indignation against Miss Gregory, of the company of girls she had met on the train.
When Philadelphia was reached, with the change of scenery and the faces of the people, thoughts began to shift from scenes she was leaving to those of her home. She dreaded the meeting with her father and appreciated the storm that would rage about her head when she broke the news that she was to be married.
She counted on the great love her father had always shown for her to win her way through the ordeal. Throughout the remainder of the trip till the train pulled up to the station at Columbia, where she had asked him to meet her, her thoughts were centered on this encounter. For the first time in her life she somewhat dreaded meeting her father. Her heart was set, however, and whenever a young girl envelopes herself in the strength of true love she steels herself for any ordeal.
The train pulled into Columbia from across the yellow Santee River, past the penitentiary and on into the center of the city in the midst of a summer downpour. It was not a showery affair but a set rain with lowering clouds floating overhead in a southwesterly direction, making gloom for the surrounding scenery and filling everyone with a feeling of depression.
She spied her father before he did her, pacing up and down the platform in his tall spare dignity, erect and eager. He was looking through the coaches as he walked, but missed his daughter till she landed with her luggage which the porter set at the corner of the station while she ran along the platform. As she neared him she called out:
"Daddy!"
The southerner turned in his tracks and swept his daughter into his arms where she nestled crying softly. "Daddy, Daddy, Dear Daddy, it's good to be with you again."
Colonel Lauriston, stern old disciplinarian that he was, struggled to master his emotions, but despite himself and biting his gray moustache the tears flowed from his eyes. Only one who has loved an offspring with all the devotion of a parent can appreciate the pent up emotion that sought expression as the old man clasped his daughter to his heart. He seemed unwilling to ever release her.
At last he freed her, however, and held her at arm's length while the tears still flowed. For a moment or two they stood thus, the father's eyes caressingly roving over his daughter's form. Finally he spoke a little softly and wistfully, as if musing more to himself than speaking to her.
"The days have been long—so very long, child."
"Did you miss me as much as that, Daddy?" She threw her arms around him again in affectionate embrace. "I missed you also."
"Bless your heart," was all he could trust himself to say.
The station porter's move to lift the luggage and carry it away ended the touchingly domestic scene to which the passengers had been witnesses. Linked arm in arm father and daughter passed down the platform and around the corner to the awaiting carriage.
The drive out into the country to the ancestral home of the Lauristons for Lida was one of continued delight expressed in exclamations as she passed familiar sights along the way. For Colonel Lauriston the drive was perfect since he had his daughter at his side. He enjoyed sitting back in the carriage, listening to Lida's talk and studying the changes a year had made in her. As they rode the clouds broke and the sun shone as if to smile a welcome.
There had been decided changes in her. Her face had matured, taking on a more womanly expression; the cheeks seemed to be fuller and more delicately tinted; her lips a little more rounded and redder with the wine of life. Colonel Lauriston also noted a little more firmness about the well-chiseled rounded chin.
In the midst of one of her bursts of admiration she turned to him as she felt his scrutiny.
"Why, Daddy, have I changed so much that you are trying to get acquainted with me over again. Have I grown so much as that?"
He smiled as he said: "I do think I'll have to get acquainted again. You've changed and improved. Your year has done you good. You're now more than ever the image of your mother."
"I may have changed outwardly but inwardly I'm not changed. I'm still Lida," she exclaimed, raising his hand to her lips affectionately.
"I don't know about that. I have a suspicion that you must have met someone who's changed your heart just a little. And I fear my girl won't be with me long."
"No one can take your place, Daddy," she replied evasively.
"Oh, it's not that. I know I won't be with you always and I'd like to see you settled in a home of your own before I go. I'd sort of hoped you might find some nice young man up there. Did you, Lida?"
The girl's blushes betrayed her.
"There—there, I thought so," her father teased, noting her embarrassment. "Tell me about him. I might as well know first as last."
"Oh, don't let's talk about that now. I'm not home yet, Daddy.—Wait till we get home."
"As serious as that, is it?" Colonel Lauriston remarked shrewdly.
His daughter made no comment, becoming suddenly pensive as she thought of Bennet and her mind raced back to him. Conversation for the remainder of the trip was spasmodic, Colonel Lauriston seemingly being content to have his daughter again under his eye and she absorbed in her dreams. In her reverie she retraced the events of the past year back to her leaving home. At this point she turned suddenly to her father.
"Oh, Daddy, what's become of Aunt Sally Gorton. Is she still here?"
"Yes,—still here." A spasm of pain at the reminder flitted across his face.
"That was awful, Daddy—the curse she placed on you, I mean."
"I thought you'd forget that superstition up North, My Girl, Only a superstition—only a superstition," he repeated.
"Yes, Daddy, but she whipped you.—Ugh!" she shivered. "I can feel the pain of it yet."
"The whim of an old woman, Lida.—The whim of an old woman," he repeated.
The carriage by this time had rounded a curve in the road disclosing to view a wide expanse of cotton fields, with here and there patches of woods. Set back at the edges of the woods at varying distances apart were houses of the foremen of the Lauriston plantation, the' landed tenantry, and the squat dwellings of the Negro hands. In the midst of the grouping was the saw mill with its piles of sawdust and discarded slabs over which Lida had romped as a child.
Between adjoining fields of growing crops which seemed to be waving their welcome greeting, wound the white sanded road like a ribbon passing house after house till it came to the gate of the Lauriston mansion.
Nestling back in the woods, some distance from the road on the opposite side to the Lauriston lands, and two miles away behind the copse of woods around which the road had curved, was the less pretentious home of Old John Marley. Lida stood as these familiar scenes came into view.
"Hello, everybody," she shouted as she waved her hand joyously over the expanse that had opened up to view. "Hello, everybody." Tears of joy dimmed her eyes as she thought.—"Home again."
She rested her hand gently on her father's shoulder as the carriage gave a lurch but held her balance, looking through her tears over the landscape. Taking in here and there groups of laborers who halted in their work as they beheld the carriage and knew that the daughter of the house had returned. Lida gripped her handkerchief and waved it at first one group and then another. Hats and hands were waved in response. The carriage never halted till the horses came panting up to the wide piazza and rounded up to the hitching post.
All the domestics of the household had swarmed to the door and onto the piazza as the carriage rolled up, from the aged bandana-decorated cook and ruler of the household Mammy Wing, to Malinda the table girl and Joe the chore boy. As the carriage halted, Mammy Wing, with her fat arms pushed the crowd aside, and started to meet the young girl. She had no more than made two steps, however, before Lida had mounted to the piazza and was swept into the old woman's embrace.
"Poor Honey Lamb," was all the old woman could say, tears halting further speech. While still in the embrace of the old woman, Lida was reaching out and shaking hands with everybody. Joe the chore boy was busy with the luggage, when Lida espied him and cried, "Hello, Joe, aren't you going to shake hands?"
The bey dropped his bundles and bowed, then shook the proffered hand. They were still grouped about the girl when Colonel Lauriston ordered:
"Be gone. Everybody. Get to your work."
With that all scattered, and Lida was ushered into the house. In the rural south formalities are forgotten. Thus when the news spread that Lida had returned, neighbors for miles around began to call. These calls continued till far into the night and Colonel Lauriston's heart filled to the bursting with pride as he exhibited his daughter to his admiring neighbors and extolled her accomplishments.