The drive home was delightful. No automobile disputed the road with us this time.
Peaceville, October 27.
Had a message to-day from the man who rents the farm that he was ready to deliver his rent in kind. It was a little misty, but I had said I would be there, so rode out on horseback while Gibbie drove the ox wagon with the big rack to receive the corn and fodder. It is "much ado about nothing," but I was solemn and put down the little numbers in my book as Mr. C. measured, though I did not dismount. The corn, fodder, and peas could all be carried in the wagon at one time, so one knows it is not a fortune. We have about 1800 acres of wild land, and in the middle of the tract is a little cabin where my father's stock-minder used to live, and every summer as we moved from the plantation, all the cattle were driven out into the pineland to spend the summer, and fatten on the rich grass of the savannahs—perhaps that is why we never heard of Texas fever among the cattle in those days. Certainly the imported stock which my father always kept throve and flourished, and they returned in November fat and hearty. Now it is impossible to do this for fear of their being stolen, and the summer on the plantation is hard on them.
The ride was delightful, the mist so soft and caressing. This has been a perfect autumn season, and I feel like clinging to the skirts of each day of crisp, cool temperature and glowing, gorgeous color. I want to keep winter off as long as possible.
November 6.
As I sat on the piazza to-day about noon a runner came to the step, an unknown negro. He looked exhausted, and I said: "You seem tired; sit on the step."
"Yes, Miss," he said. "Dem sen' me fu' bring yu' dis talifone messige, en dem say, 'Hurry.'"
He handed me a note, which I opened hastily. It was from the rector of All Saints, Waccamaw, saying: "Mrs. S. of Rose Hill is dead, and will be buried at The Oaks at 3 o'clock to-day."
At once I sent a message to Bonaparte to have the red boat and Elihu ready to take me over to Waccamaw and I followed as soon as I could have the buckboard got. I felt such a pang that I had allowed myself to be discouraged, and not gone over to see Mrs. S. when the impulse seized me to do so two weeks ago, and now her remarkable personality was gone.
When I got to the plantation I found that Elihu, with all the other men on the place, was cutting rice in No. 8, the field they had rented from me, which is some distance away, and it was late before I could get Elihu. When he finally appeared he seemed much indisposed for any exertion; said he was worn out; could not possibly row to Waccamaw, so I concluded I would have to give up going, and I said with a sigh: "I am sorry I cannot go. Mrs. S. was papa's cousin. I have never seen her since he took me to visit her when I was a child, and I would have liked to attend her funeral, to do the last honors to her."