Lying in the crook of the river's elbow, with the nearest railroad
eighteen miles away, Cove City, familiarly known as the Cove, rested
serenely undisturbed by the progress of the world. Once a day, at any
time between sundown and midnight, it was roused from its drowsiness by
the arrival of the mail-boat, and, shaking itself into temporary
wakefulness, sat up and rubbed its eyes. This animation was, however, of
short duration, for before the packet had whistled for the next landing,
the Cove had once more settled back into slumber.
Main Street began with a shabby, unpainted school-house, and following
dramatic sequence, ended abruptly in the graveyard. Two cross-streets,
which had started out with laudable ideas of independence, lost courage
at Main Street and sought strength in union; but the experiment was not
successful, and a cow-path was the result. The only semblance of
frivolity about the town was a few straggling cottages on stilts of
varying height as they approached the river; for they seemed ever in the
act of holding up their skirts preparatory to wading forth into the
water.
On this particular summer afternoon Cove City was less out of crimp than
usual. The gathering of loafers that generally decorated the empty boxes
piled along the sidewalk was missing. The old vehicles and weary-looking
mules which ordinarily formed an irregular fringe along the hitching
rail were conspicuously absent. A subdued excitement was in the air, and
at the slightest noise feminine heads appeared at windows, and masculine
figures appeared in doorways, and comments were exchanged in low tones
from one side of the street to the other. For the loss of a citizen,
even a poor one, disturbs the surface of affairs, and when the event
brings two relatives from a distance, the ripples of excitement increase
perceptibly.
Mr. Moore had been a citizen-in-law, as it were, and had never been
considered in any other light than poor Mrs. Opp's widower. Mrs. Opp's
poor widower might have been a truer way of stating it, but even a town
has its parental weaknesses.
For two generations the Opp family had been a source of mystery and
romance to the Cove. It stood apart, like the house that held it, poor
and shabby, but bearing a baffling atmosphere of gentility, of
superiority, and of reserve.
Old women recalled strange tales of the time when Mrs. Opp had come to
the Cove as a bride, and how she refused to meet any of the townspeople,
and lived alone in the old house on the river-bank, watching from hour
to hour for the wild young husband who clerked on one of the river
steamers. They told how she grew thin and white with waiting, and how,
when her two boys were small, she made them stand beside her for hours
at a time, watching the river and listening for the whistle of his boat.
Then the story went that the gay young husband stopped coming
altogether, and still she watched and waited, never allowing the boys
out of her sight, refusing to send them to school, or to let them play
with other children. By and by word was brought that her husband had
been killed in a quarrel over cards, and little Mrs. Opp, having nothing
now to watch for and to wait for, suddenly became strangely changed.
Old Aunt Tish, the negro servant, was the only person who ever crossed
the threshold, and she told of a strange life that went on behind the
closely curtained windows, where the sunlight was never allowed to
enter, and lamps burned all day long.
"Yas, 'm," she used to say in answer to curious questionings; "hit's jes
like play-actin' all de time. The Missis dress herself up, an' 'tend
like she's a queen or a duke or somethin', an' dat little D. he jes
acts out all dem fool things she tells him to, an' he ain't never bein'
hisself at all, but jes somebody big and mighty and grand-like."
When the boys were half-grown, a stranger appeared in the Cove, a dapper
little man of about fifty in a shabby frock-coat and a shabbier high
hat, kind of face and gentle of voice, but with the dignity of conscious
superiority. The day of his arrival he called upon Mrs. Opp; the second
day he took a preacher with him and married her. Whatever old romance
had led to this climax could only be dimly guessed at by the curious
townspeople.
For two years Mr. Moore fought for the mind of his old sweetheart as he
had long ago fought for her heart. He opened the house to the sunshine,
and coaxed the little lady back into the world she had forgotten. The
boys were sent to school, the old games and fancies were forbidden.
Gradually the color returned to her cheeks, and the light to her eyes.
Then little Kippy was born, and happiness such as seldom comes to one
who has tasted the dregs of life came to the frail little woman in the
big four-poster bed. For ten days she held the baby fingers to her
heart, and watched the little blossom of a maid unfold.
But one black night, when the rain beat against the panes, and the moan
of the river sounded in her ears, she suddenly sat up in bed: she had
heard the whistle of _his_ boat! Full of dumb terror she crept to the
window, and with her face pressed against the glass she waited and
watched. The present was swallowed up in the past. She was once more
alone, unloved, afraid. Stealthily snatching a cloak, she crept down
into the garden, feeling her way through the sodden grass, and the
jimpson weed which the rain had beaten down.
And ever since, when children pass the house on their way to school,
they peep through the broken fence rails, and point out to one another,
in awed tones, the tree under which Miss Kippy's mother killed herself.
Then they look half-fearfully at the windows in the hope of catching a
glimpse of Miss Kippy herself.
For Kippy had had a long illness in her thirteenth year which left her
with the face and mind of a little child, and kindly, shabby Mr. Moore,
having made the supreme effort of his life, from this time on ceased to
struggle against the weakness that for half a lifetime had beset him,
and sought oblivion in innocuous but perpetual libations. The one duty
which he recognized was the care of his invalid daughter.
As soon as they were old enough, the boys launched their small craft and
set forth to seek their fortunes. Ben, with no cargo on board but his
own desires, went west and found a snug and comfortable harbor, while D.
Webster, the hope of his mother and the pride of the town, was at
thirty-five still putting out to sea, with all sail set, only to find
himself again and again aground on the sandbars of the old familiar
Cove.