Alice Caldwell Hegan Rice

The next day dawned wet and chilly. A fine mist hung in the trees, and the leaves and grasses sagged under their burden of moisture. All the crimson and gold had changed to brown and gray, and the birds and crickets had evidently packed away their chirps and retired for the season.

By the light of a flickering candle, Mr. D.Webster Opp partook of a frugal breakfast. The luxurious habits of the Moore household had made breakfast a movable feast depending upon the time of Aunt Tish’s arrival, and in establishing the new rÉgime Mr. Opp had found it necessary to prepare his own breakfast in order to make sure of getting to the office before noon.

As he sipped his warmed-over coffee, [p135] with his elbows on the red table-cloth, and his heels hooked on the rung of the chair, he recited to himself in an undertone from a very large and imposing book which was propped in front of him, the leaves held back on one side by a candlestick and on the other by a salt-cellar. It was a book which Mr. Opp was buying on subscription, and it was called “An Encyclopedia of Wonder, Beauty, and Wisdom.” It contained pellets of information on all subjects, and Mr. Opp made it a practice to take several before breakfast, and to repeat the dose at each meal as circumstances permitted. “An editor,” he told Nick, “has got to keep himself instructed on all subjects. He has got to read wide and continuous.”

As a rule he followed no special line in his pursuit of knowledge, but with true catholicity of taste, took the items as they came, turning from a strenuous round with “Abbeys and Abbots,” to enter with fervor into the wilds of “Abyssinia.” The straw which served as bookmark pointed to-day to “Ants,” and [p136] ordinarily Mr. Opp would have attacked the subject with all the enthusiasm of an entomologist. But even the best regulated minds will at times play truant, and Mr. Opp’s had taken a flying leap and skipped six hundred and thirty-two pages, landing recklessly in the middle of “Young Lochinvar.” For the encyclopedia, in its laudable endeavor not only to cover all intellectual requirements, but also to add the crowning grace of culture, had appended a collection of poems under the title “Favorites, Old and New.”

Mr. Opp, thus a-wing on the winds of poesy, had sipped his tepid coffee and nibbled his burnt toast in fine abstraction until he came upon a selection which his soul recognized. He had found words to the music that was ringing in his heart. It was then that he propped the book open before him, and determined not to close it until he had made the lines his own.

Later, as he trudged along the road to town, he repeated the verses to himself, [p137] patiently referring again and again to the note-book in which he had copied the first words of each line.

At the office door he regretfully dismounted from Pegasus, and resolutely turned his attention to the business of the day. His desire was to complete the week’s work by noon, spend the afternoon at home in necessary preparation for the coming guest, and have the following day, which was Saturday, free to devote to the interest of the oil company.

In order to accomplish this, expedition was necessary, and Mr. Opp, being more bountifully endowed by nature with energy than with any other quality, fell to work with a will. His zeal, however, interfered with his progress, and he found himself in the embarrassing condition of a machine which is geared too high.

He was, moreover, a bit bruised and stiff from the unusual performances of the previous day, and any sudden motion caused him to wince. But the pain brought recollection, and recollection was instant balm.[p138]
It was hardly to be expected that things would deviate from their usual custom of becoming involved at a critical time, so Mr. Opp was not surprised when Nick was late and had to be spoken to, a task which the editor always achieved with great difficulty. Then the printing-press had an acute attack of indigestion, and no sooner was that relieved than the appalling discovery was made that there were no more good “S’s” in the type drawer.

“Use dollar-marks for the next issue,” directed Mr. Opp, “and I’ll wire immediate to the city.”

“We’re kinder short on ‘I’s’ too,” said Nick. “You take so many in your articles.”

Mr. Opp looked injured. “I very seldom or never begin on an ‘I,’” he said indignantly.

“You get ’em in somehow,” said Nick. “Why, the editor over at Coreyville even said ‘Our Wife.’”

“Yes,” said Mr. Opp, “I will, too,—that is—er—”[p139]
The telephone-bell covered his retreat.

“Hello!” he answered in a deep, incisive voice to counteract the effect of his recent embarrassment, “Office of ‘The Opp Eagle.’ Mr. Toddlinger? Yes, sir. You say you want your subscription stopped! Well, now, wait a minute—see here, I can explain that—” but the other party had evidently rung off.

Mr. Opp turned with exasperation upon Nick:

“Do you know what you went and did last week?” He rose and, going to the file, consulted the top paper. “There it is,” he said, “just identical with what he asserted.”

Nick followed the accusing finger and read:

“Mr. and Mrs. Toddlinger moved this week into their new horse and lot.”

Before explanations could be entered into, there was a knock at the door. When it was answered, a very small black boy was discovered standing on the step. He wore a red shirt and a pair of ragged trousers, between which strained [p140] relations existed, and on his head was the brim of a hat from which the crown had long since departed. Hanging on a twine string about his neck was a large onion.

He opened negotiations at once.

“Old Miss says fer you-all to stop dat frowin’ papers an’ sech like trash outen de winder; dey blows over in our-all’s yard.”

He delivered the message in the same belligerent spirit with which it had evidently been conveyed to him, and rolled his eyes at Mr. Opp as if the offense had been personal.

Mr. Opp drew him in, and closed the door. “Did—er—did Mrs. Gusty send you over to say that?” he asked anxiously.

“Yas, sir; she done havin’ a mad spell. What’s dat dere machine fer?”

“It’s a printing-press. Do you think Mrs. Gusty is mad at me?”

“Yas, sir,” emphatically; “she’s mad at ever’body. She ’lows she gwine lick me ef I don’t tek keer. She done got de [p141] kitchen so full o’ switches hit looks jes lak outdoors.”

“I don’t think she would really whip you,” said Mr. Opp, already feeling the family responsibility.

“Naw, sir; she jes ’low she gwine to. What’s in dem dere little drawers?”

“Type,” said Mr. Opp. “You go back and tell Mrs. Gusty that Mr. Opp says he’s very sorry to have caused her any inconvenience, and he’ll send over immediate and pick up them papers.”

“You’s kinder skeered of her, too, ain’t you?” grinned the ambassador, holding up one bare, black foot to the stove. “My mammy she sasses back, but I runs.”

“Well, you’d better run now,” said Mr. Opp, who resented such insight; “but, see here, what’s that onion for?”

“To ’sorb disease,” said the youth, with the air of one who is promulgating some advanced theory in therapeutics; “hit ketches it ’stid of you. My pappy weared a’ onion fer put-near a whole year, an’ hit ’sorbed all de diseases whut [p142] was hangin’ round, an’ nary a one never teched him. An’ one day my pappy he got hongry, an’ he et dat dere onion, an’ whut you reckon? He up an’ died!”

“Well, you go ’long now,” said Mr. Opp, “and tell Mrs. Gusty just exactly verbatim what I told you. What did you say was your name?”

“Val,” said the boy.

Mr. Opp managed to slip a nickel into the dirty little hand without Nick’s seeing him. Nick was rather firm about these things, and disapproved heartily of Mr. Opp’s indiscriminate charities.

“Gimme nudder one an’ I’ll tell you de rest ob it,” whispered Val on the door-step.

Mr. Opp complied.

“Valentine Day Johnson,” he announced with pride; then pocketing his prize, he vanished around the corner of the house, forgetting his office of plenipotentiary in his sudden accession of wealth.

Once more peace settled on the office, and Mr. Opp was engrossed in an article [p143] on “The Greatest Petroleum Proposition South of the Mason and Dixon Line,” when an ominous, wheezing cough announced the arrival of Mr. Tucker. This was an unexpected catastrophe, for Mr. Tucker’s day for spending the morning at the office was Saturday, when he came in to pay for his paper. It seemed rather an unkind trick of Fate’s that he should have been permitted to arrive a day too soon.

The old gentleman drew up a chair to the stove, then deliberately removed his overcoat and gloves.

It was when he took off his overshoes, however, that Mr. Opp and Nick exchanged looks of despair. They had a signal code which they habitually employed when storms swept the office, but in a calm like this they were powerless.

“Mighty sorry to hear about that uprisin’ in Guatemala,” said Mr. Tucker, who took a vivid interest in foreign affairs, but remained quite neutral about questions at home.

Mr. Opp moved about the office [p144] restlessly, knowing from experience that to sit down in the presence of Mr. Tucker was fatal. The only chance of escape lay in motion. He sharpened his pencils, straightened his desk, and tied up two bundles of papers while Mr. Tucker’s address on the probable future of the Central American republics continued. Then Mr. Opp was driven to extreme measures. He sent himself a telegram. This ruse was occasionally resorted to, to free the office from unwelcome visitors without offending them, and served incidentally to produce an effect which was not unpleasant to the editor.

Scribbling a message on a telegraph-blank procured for the purpose from Mr. Gallop, Mr. Opp handed it secretly to Nick, who in turn vanished out of the back door only to reappear at the front. Then the editor, with much ostentation, opened the envelop, and, after reading the contents, declared that he had business that would require immediate action. Would Mr. Tucker excuse him? If so, Nick would hold his coat.[p145]
“But,” protested Mr. Tucker, resisting the effort to force him into his overcoat, “I want to talk over this oil business. We don’t want to take any risks with those fellows. As I was a-saying to Mr. Hager—”

“Yes,” said Mr. Opp, taking his own hat from a nail, and apparently in great haste, “I know, of course. You are exactly right about it. We’ll just talk it over as we go up-street,” and linking his arm through Mr. Tucker’s, he steered him up the muddy channel of Main Street, and safely into the harbor of Our Hotel, where he anchored him breathless, but satisfied.

Having thus disposed, to the best of his ability, of his business for the week, Mr. Opp turned his attention to his yet more arduous domestic affairs. The menu for the guest’s dinner had weighed rather heavily upon him all day, for he had never before entertained in his own home. His heart had been set on turkey; but as that was out of the question, he compromised on a goose, [p146] adhering tenaciously to the cranberry sauce.

It was easier to decide on the goose than it was to procure it, and some time was consumed in the search. Mr. Opp brought all his mental powers to bear on the subject, and attacked the problem with a zeal that merited success.

When he reached home at noon with his arm full of bundles, Aunt Tish met him with lamentations.

“Dey ain’t but one clean table-cloth, an’ hit’s got a hole in hit, an’ I can’t find no sheets to put on de company baid, an’ dere ain’t three cups an’ saucers in de house what belongs to theyselves. I shorely doan know what you thinkin’ ’bout, Mr. D., to go an’ ast company fer. We-all never does hab company. An’ Miss Kippy she be’n habin’ a sort er spell, too, cryin’ to herself, an’ won’t tell me whut’s de matter.”

Mr. Opp shook the raindrops from his hat-brim, and laid the goose tenderly on the table; then he stepped inside the dining-room door, and stood watching the [p147] childish figure that sat on the floor before the fire. She was putting artificial flowers on her head, and every time they fell off, she dropped her head on her knees and sobbed softly to herself. Again and again she made the experiment, and again and again the faded roses came tumbling into her lap.

“I’ll fix ’em,” said Mr. Opp, coming up behind her; “don’t you cry about it, Kippy; I can make them stay, easy.” He searched around in the clothes-press until he found a paper box, which he tied securely upon Miss Kippy’s head.

“Now try it,” he cried; “put the flowers on your head; they’ll stay.”

Timidly, as if afraid of another disappointment, she tried, and when the flowers were caught in the box, she gave a sigh of satisfaction and delight.

“Well, sence I j’ined de church!” exclaimed Aunt Tish, who had been watching proceedings from the doorway; then she added, as Mr. Opp came into the hall: “Hit beats my time de way you handles dat pore chile. Sometimes she [p148] got jes good sense as you an’ me has. She ast me t’other day if she wasn’t crazy. I ’lowed no indeedy, dat crazy folks was lock up in a lunatic asylum. An’ she says ‘Where?’ ‘Up at Coreyville,’ I say. She went on playin’ jes as nice and happy. De chile’s all right ef she don’t git a fool notion; den dey ain’t nobody kin make out what she wants inceptin’ you. She been cryin’ over dem flowers ever sence breakfast.”

“Why didn’t you come after me?” demanded Mr. Opp.

“Jes to tie a box on her haid?” asked Aunt Tish. “Lor’, I thought you was busy makin’ dem newspapers.”

“So I am,” said Mr. Opp, “but whenever Miss Kippy gets to crying, I want you to come direct after me, do you hear? There ain’t anything more important than in keeping her from getting worried. Now, let’s have a look at that there table-cloth.”

All afternoon Mr. Opp encountered difficulties that would have disheartened a less courageous host. With the limited [p149] means at hand it seemed impossible to entertain in a manner befitting the dignity of the editor of “The Opp Eagle.” But Mr. Opp, though sorely perplexed, was not depressed, for beneath the disturbed surface of his thoughts there ran an undercurrent of pure joy. It caused him to make strange, unnatural sounds in his throat which he meant for song; it made him stop every now and then in his work to glance tenderly and reminiscently at the palm of his right hand, once even going so far as to touch it softly with his lips. For since the last sun had set there had been no waking moment but had held for him the image of a golden world inhabited solely by a pair of luminous eyes, one small hand, and, it must be added, a band-box.

Through the busy afternoon Mr. Opp referred constantly to his watch, and in spite of the manifold duties to be performed, longed impatiently for evening to arrive. At five o’clock he had moved the furniture from one bedroom to another, demonstrated beyond a possibility [p150] of doubt that a fire could not be made in the parlor grate without the chimney smoking, mended two chairs, hung a pair of curtains, and made three errands to town. So much accomplished, he turned his attention to the most difficult task of all.

“Kippy,” he said, going to the window where she was gleefully tracing the course of the raindrops as they chased down the pane. “Stop a minute, Kippy. Listen; I want to talk to you.”

Miss Kippy turned obediently, but her lips continued the dumb conversation she was having with the rain.

“How would you like,” said Mr. Opp, approaching the subject cautiously, “to play like you was a grown-up lady—just for to-night, you know?”

Miss Kippy looked at him suspiciously, and her lips stopped moving. Heretofore she had resisted all efforts to change her manner of dress.

“There’s a gentleman a-coming,” continued Mr. Opp, persuasively; “he’s going to remain over till to-morrow, and [p151] Aunt Tish is cooking that large goose for him, and I’ve been fixing up the spare room. We are all endeavoring to give him a nice time. Don’t you want to dress up for him?”

“Will it make him glad?” asked Miss Kippy.

Mr. Opp expiated on the enjoyment it would give the unknown guest to see Kippy in the blue merino dress which Aunt Tish had gotten out of Mrs. Opp’s old trunk up-stairs.

“And you’ll let Aunt Tish arrange your hair up like a lady?” went on Mr. Opp, pushing the point.

“Yes,” said Miss Kippy, after a moment, “Oxety will. She will make him glad.”

“Good!” said Mr. Opp. “And if you will sit nice and quiet and never say a word all through supper, I’ll get you a book with pictures in it, representing flowers and things.”

“Roses?” asked Miss Kippy, drawing a quick breath of delight; and when Mr. Opp nodded, she closed her eyes and [p152] smiled as if heaven were within sight. For Miss Kippy was like a harp across which some rough hand had swept, snapping all the strings but two, the high one of ecstasy and the low one of despair.

At six o’clock Mr. Opp went up to make his toilet. The rain, which had been merely rehearsing all day, was now giving a regular performance, and it played upon the windows, and went trilling through the gutters on the roof, while the old cedar-tree scraped an accompaniment on the corner of the porch below. But, nothing daunted, Mr. Opp donned his bravest attire. Cyclones and tornadoes could not have deterred him from making the most elaborate toilet at his command. To be sure, he turned up the hem of his trousers and tied a piece of oilcloth securely about each leg, and he also spread a handkerchief tenderly over his pink necktie; but these could be easily removed after he heard the boat whistle.

He dressed by the light of a sputtering candle before a small mirror the veracity of which was more than questionable. It [p153] presented him to himself as a person with a broad, flat face, the nose of which appeared directly between his eyes, and the mouth on a line with the top of his ears. But he made allowances for these idiosyncrasies on the part of the mirror; in fact, he made such liberal allowances that he was quite satisfied with the reflection.

“I’ll procure the hack to bring the company back in,” he said to Aunt Tish rather nervously as he passed through the kitchen. “You assist Miss Kippy to get arranged, and I’ll carry up the coal and set the table after I return back home. I can do it while the company is up in his room.”

All the way into town, as he splashed along the muddy road, he was alternately dreading the arrival of one passenger, and anticipating joyfully, the arrival of another. For as the time approached the impending presence of the company began to take ominous form, and Mr. Opp grew apprehensive.

At the landing he found everything [p154] dark and quiet. Evidently the packet was unusually late, and the committee appointed to meet it and conduct the guests to their various destinations was waiting somewhere uptown, probably at Your Hotel. Mr. Opp paused irresolute: his soul yearned for solitude, but the rain-soaked dock offered no shelter except the slight protection afforded by a pile of empty boxes. Selecting the driest and largest of these, he turned it on end, and by an adroit adjustment of his legs, succeeded in getting inside.

Below, the river rolled heavily past in the twilight, sending up tiny juts of water to meet the pelting rain. A cold, penetrating mist clung to the ground, and the wind carried complaining tales from earth to heaven. Everything breathed discomfort, but Mr. Opp knew it not.

His soul was sailing sunlit seas of bliss, fully embarked at last upon the most magic and immortal of all illusions. Sitting cramped and numb in his narrow quarters, he peered eagerly into the darkness, watching for the first lights of [p155] the Sunny South to twinkle through the gloom. And as he watched he chanted in a sing-song ecstasy: