Half an hour later, Mr. Opp dragged himself up the hill to his home. All
the unfairness and injustice of the universe seemed pressing upon his
heart. Every muscle in his body quivered in remembrance of what he had
been through, and an iron band seemed tightening about his throat. His
town had refused to believe his story! It had laughed in his face!
With a sudden mad desire for sympathy and for love, he began calling
Kippy. He stumbled across the porch, and, opening the door with his
latch-key, stood peering into the gloom of the room.
The draft from an open window blew a curtain toward him, a white
spectral, beckoning thing, but no sound broke the stillness.
"Kippy!" he called again, his voice sharp with anxiety.
From one room to another he ran, searching in nooks and corners, peering
under the beds and behind the doors, calling in a voice that was
sometimes a command, but oftener a plea: "Kippy! Kippy!"
At last he came back to the dining-room and lighted the lamp with
shaking hands. On the hearth were the remains of a small bonfire, with
papers scattered about. He dropped on his knees and seized a bit of
charred cardboard. It was a corner of the hand-painted frame that had
incased the picture of Guinevere Gusty! Near it lay loose sheets of
paper, parts of that treasured package of letters she had written him
from Coreyville.
As Mr. Opp gazed helplessly about the room, his eyes fell upon something
white pinned to the red table-cloth. He held it to the light. It was a
portion of one of Guinevere's letters, written in the girl's clear,
round hand:
Mother says I can never marry you until Miss Kippy goes to the
asylum.
Mr. Opp got to his feet. "She's read the letter," he cried wildly;
"she's learned out about herself! Maybe she's in the woods now, or down
on the bank!" He rushed to the porch. "Kippy!" he shouted. "Don't be
afraid! Brother D.'s coming to get you! Don't run away, Kippy! Wait for
me! Wait!" and leaving the old house open to the night, he plunged into
the darkness, beating through the woods and up and down the road,
calling in vain for Kippy, who lay cowering in the bottom of a leaking
skiff that was drifting down the river at the mercy of the current.
* * * * *
Two days later, Mr. Opp sat in the office of the Coreyville Asylum for
the Insane and heard the story of his sister's wanderings. Her boat had
evidently been washed ashore at a point fifteen miles above the town,
for people living along the river had reported a strange little woman,
without hat or coat, who came to their doors crying and saying her name
was "Oxety," and that she was crazy, and begging them to show her the
way to the asylum. On the second day she had been found unconscious on
the steps of the institution, and since then, the doctor said, she had
been wild and unmanageable.
"Considering all things," he concluded, "it is much wiser for you not to
see her. She came of her own accord, evidently felt the attack coming
on, and wanted to be taken care of."
He was a large, smooth-faced man, with the conciliatory manner of one
who regards all his fellow-men as patients in varying degrees of
insanity.
"But I'm in the regular habit of taking care of her," protested Mr. Opp.
"This is just a temporary excitement for the time being that won't ever,
probably, occur again. Why, she's been improving all winter; I've
learnt her to read and write a little, and to pick out a number of
cities on the geographical atlas."
"All wrong," exclaimed the doctor; "mistaken kindness. She can never be
any better, but she may be a great deal worse. Her mind should never be
stimulated or excited in any way. Here, of course, we understand all
these things and treat the patient accordingly."
"Then I must just go back to treating her like a child again?" asked Mr.
Opp, "not endeavoring to improve her intellect, or help her grow up in
any way?"
The doctor laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.
"You leave her to us," he said. "The State provides this excellent
institution for just such cases as hers. You do yourself and your
family, if you have one, an injustice by keeping her at home. Let her
stay here for six months or so, and you will see what a relief it will
be."
Mr. Opp sat with his elbow on the desk and his head propped in his
hand, and stared miserably at the floor. He had not had his clothes off
for two nights, and he had scarcely taken time from his search to eat
anything. His face looked old and wizened and haunted from the strain.
Yet here and now he was called upon to make his great decision. On the
one hand lay the old, helpless life with Kippy, and on the other a
future of dazzling possibility with Guinevere. All of his submerged self
suddenly rose and demanded happiness. He was ready to snatch it, at any
cost, regardless of everything and everybody--of Kippy; of Guinevere,
who, he knew, did not love him, but would keep her promise; of Hinton,
whose secret he had long ago guessed. And, as a running accompaniment to
his thoughts, was the quiet, professional voice of the doctor urging him
to the course that his heart prompted. For a moment the personal forces
involved trembled in equilibrium.
After a long time he unknotted his fingers, and drew his handkerchief
across his brow.
"I guess I'll go up and see her now," he said, with the gasping breath
of a man who has been under water.
In vain the doctor protested. Mr. Opp was determined.
As the door to the long ward was being unlocked, he leaned for a moment
dizzily against the wall.
"You'd better let me give you a swallow of whisky," suggested the
doctor, who had noted his exhaustion.
Mr. Opp raised his hand deprecatingly, with a touch of his old
professional pride. "I don't know as I've had occasion to mention," he
said, "that I am the editor and sole proprietor of 'The Opp Eagle'; and
that bird," he added, with a forced smile, "is, as everybody knows, a
complete teetotaler."
At the end of the crowded ward, with her face to the wall, was a slight,
familiar figure. Mr. Opp started forward; then he turned fiercely upon
the attendant.
"Her hands are tied! Who dared to tie her up like that?"
"It's just a soft handkerchief," replied the matronly woman,
reassuringly. "We were afraid she would pull her hair out. She wants its
fixed a certain way; but she's afraid for any of us to touch her. She
has been crying about it ever since she came."
In an instant Mr. Opp was on his knees beside her. "Kippy, Kippy
darling, here's brother D.; he'll fix it for you! You want it parted on
the side, don't you, tied with a bow, and all the rest hanging down?
Don't cry so, Kippy. I'm here now; brother D.'ll take care of you."
She flung her loosened arms around him and clung to him in a passion of
relief. Her sobs shook them both, and his face and neck were wet with
her tears.
As soon as they could get her sufficiently quiet, they took her into her
little bedroom.
"You let the lady get you ready," urged Mr. Opp, still holding her hand,
"and I'll take you back home, and Aunt Tish will have a nice, hot supper
all waiting for us."
But she would let nobody else touch her, and even then she broke forth
into piteous sobs and protests. Once she pushed him from her and looked
about wildly. "No, no," she cried, "I mustn't go; I am crazy!" But he
told her about the three little kittens that had been born under the
kitchen steps, and in an instant she was all a-tremble with eagerness to
go home to see them.
An hour later, Mr. Opp and his charge sat on the river-bank and waited
for the little launch that was to take them back to the Cove. A curious
crowd had gathered at a short distance, for their story had gone the
rounds.
Mr. Opp sat under the fire of curious glances, gazing straight in front
of him, and only his flushed face showed what he was suffering. Miss
Kippy, in her strange clothes and with her pale hair flying about her
shoulders, sat close by him, her hand in his.
"D.," she said once in a high, insistent voice, "when will I be grown up
enough to marry Mr. Hinton?"
Mr. Opp for a moment forgot the crowd. "Kippy," he said with all the
gentle earnestness that was in him, "you ain't never going to grow up at
all. You are just always going to be brother D.'s little girl. You see,
Mr. Hinton's too old for you, just like--" he paused, then finished it
bravely--"just like I am too old for Miss Guin-never. I wouldn't be
surprised if they got married with each other some day. You and me will
just have to take care of each other."
She looked at him with the quick suspicion of the insane, but he was
ready for her with a smile.
"Oh, D.," she cried, in a sudden rapture, "we are glad, ain't we?"