The marriage of Guinevere Gusty and Willard Hinton took place in
mid-winter, and the account of it, published in the last issue of "The
Opp Eagle," proved that the eagle, like the swan, has its death-song.
Like many of the masterpieces of literature, the article had been
written in anguish of spirit; but art, like nature, ignores the process,
and reckons only the result, and the result, in Mr. Opp's opinion at
least, more than justified the effort.
"In these strenuous, history-making meanderings of the sands of life,"
it ran, "we sometimes overlook or neglect particulars in events which
prove of larger importance than appears on the surface. The case to
which we have allusion to is the wedding which was solemnized at
eventide at the residence of the bride's mother. The Gustys may be
justly considered one of the best-furnished families in the county, and
the parlors were only less beautiful than the only daughter there
presiding. The collation served therein was of such a liberal nature
that every guest, we might venture to say, took dinner enough home for
supper. It has seldom been our fate to meet a gentleman of such
intelligent attainments as Mr. Hinton, and his entire future existence,
be it long or short, cannot fail of being thrice blessed by the
companionship of the one who has confided her trust to him,--her choice,
world-wide. Although a bachelor ourself, we know what happiness must be
theirs, and with all our heart we vouchsafe them a joyful voyage across
the uncertain billows of Time until their nuptial or matrimonial bark
shall have been safely moored in the haven of everlasting bliss, where
the storms of this life spread not their violence."
Some men spend their lives in the valley, and some are born and die on
the heights; but it was Mr. Opp's fate to climb from the valley to his
own little mountain-top of prosperity, only to have to climb down on the
other side. It was evidence of his genius that in time he persuaded
himself and his fellow-citizens that it was exactly what he wanted to
do.
"That there life of managing and promoting was all right in its way," he
said one day to a group of men at the post-office, "but a man owes
something to himself, don't he? Now that the town has got well started,
and Mr. Hinton is going to take main charge of the paper, I'll be freer
than I been for years to put some of my ideas into practice."
"We are counting on getting you back in the orchestra," said Mr. Gallop,
whose admiration for Mr. Opp retained its pristine bloom.
Mr. Opp shook his head regretfully. "No, I'm going to give all my
evenings over to study. This present enterprise I am engaged on
requires a lot of personal application. I sometimes think that I have in
the past scattered my forces too much, in a way."
So persistently did Mr. Opp refer to the mysterious work that was
engrossing him that he reduced Mr. Gallop's curiosity to the
saturation-point.
When he was no longer able to stand it, the telegraph operator
determined upon a tour of investigation. The projected presentation of a
new cornet by the Unique Orchestra to its erstwhile leader proved a
slender excuse for a call, and while he knew that, with the exception of
Willard Hinton, no visitor had ever been known to cross the Opp
threshold, yet he permitted desire to overrule delicacy.
It was a blustery December night when he climbed the hill, and he had to
pause several times during the ascent to gain sufficient breath to
proceed. By the time he reached the house he was quite speechless, and
he dropped on the steps to rest a moment before knocking. As he sat
there trying to imagine the flying-machine or torpedo-boat upon which he
felt certain Mr. Opp was engaged, he became aware of voices from within,
and looking up, he saw the window above him was slightly raised.
Overcome by his desire to see his friend at work upon his great
invention, he cautiously tiptoed across the porch and peeped in.
The low-ceilinged old room was bright with firelight, and in the center
of it, with his knees drawn up, his toes turned in, and his tongue
thrust out, sat Mr. Opp, absorbed in an object which he held between his
knees. Miss Kippy knelt before him, eagerly watching proceedings.
Mr. Gallop craned his neck to see what it was that held their interest,
and at last discovered that they were fitting a dress on a large china
doll.
Miss Kippy's voice broke the silence. "You can sew nice," she was
saying; "you can sew prettier than Aunt Tish."
[Illustration: "'Can't nobody beat me making skirts'"]
"Can't nobody beat me making skirts," said Mr. Opp, and Mr. Gallop saw
him push his needle through a bit of cloth, with the handle of the
shovel; "but sleeves is a more particular proposition. Why, I'd rather
thread three needles than to fix in one sleeve! Why don't you make like
it's summer-time and let her go without any?"
Miss Kippy's lips trembled. "I want sleeves, D.--two of them, and a
lady's hat, with roses on it. We can let _her_ be grown up, can't we,
D.?"
Mr. Gallop beat a hasty and shame-faced retreat. Though his idol had
fallen from its pedestal, he determined to stand guard over the
fragments, and from that night on, he constituted himself Mr. Opp's
loyal defender.
And Mr. Gallop was not the only one who came forth boldly in expressions
of sympathy and respect for the ex-editor. It was especially easy for
those who had prospered by the oil boom to express unbounded admiration
for the conscientious stand he had taken in the late transaction. They
had done him a grave injustice, they acknowledged. The wells had been
reinvestigated and proved of small value. The fact that the truth was
discovered too late to affect their luck deepened their appreciation of
Mr. Opp.
Willard Hinton, seeing what balm these evidences of approval brought to
Mr. Opp's wounded spirit, determined to arrange for a banquet to the
retiring editor, at which he planned to bring forth as many testimonials
of friendship and good-will as was possible.
The affair was to take place New Year's night, in the dining-room of
Fallows's new Your Hotel. The entire masculine contingent of the Cove
was invited, and the feminine element prepared the supper. There had
never been a social event of such an ambitious nature attempted in the
Cove before, and each citizen took a personal pride in its success.
For a week in advance the town was in violent throes of speech-writing,
cake-baking, salad-mixing, and decorating. Even Mrs. Fallows warmed to
the occasion, and crocheted a candlestick, candle, flame, and all, to
grace the table.
When the night arrived, Jimmy Fallows did the honors. He was resplendent
in his dress-suit, which consisted of a black sateen shirt and a brown
suit of clothes.
When the guests were all seated, Willard Hinton rose, and in a few
brief, pointed remarks, called the attention of the town to the changes
that had been wrought by the indefatigable efforts of one citizen in
particular. He spoke of the debt of gratitude they owed, collectively
and individually, to the late editor of "The Opp Eagle," and added that
after Mr. Opp's response, the guests desired, each in turn, to voice his
sentiments upon the subject.
Mr. Opp then rose amid a thunder of applause, and stood for a moment in
pleased but overwhelming embarrassment. Then he put forward one foot
inflated his chest, and began:
"Valued brother fellow-beings, I come before you to-night to express
that which there is no words in the English vocabulary to express.
Whatever you may have to say concerning me, or my part in the awakening
of this our native city, I shall listen at with a grateful heart. I
believe in a great future for Cove City. We may not live to see it, but
I believe that the day will arrive when our city shall be the gateway to
the South, when the river front will be not dissimilar to Main Street,
New York. I predict that it reaches a pivot of prominence of which we
wot not of. As for Mr. Hinton, one and all we welcome him amid our
mongst. 'The Opp Eagle' strikes palms with 'The Weekly News,' and wishes
it a lasting and eternal success."
A burst of applause interrupted the flow of his eloquence, and as he
glanced around the room, he saw there was some commotion at the door. A
turbaned head caught his eye, then Aunt Tish's beckoning hand.
Hastily excusing himself, he made his way through the crowd, and bent to
hear her message.
"Hit's Miss Kippy," she whispered. "I hate to 'sturb you, but she done
crack her doll's head, an' she's takin' on so, I can't do nuffin 't all
wif her."
"Couldn't you contrive to get her quiet no way at all?" asked Mr. Opp,
anxiously.
"Naw, sir. She mek like dat doll her shore 'nough baby, and she 'low she
gwine die, too, furst chanct she gits. I got Val's mother to stay wif
her till I git back."
"All right," said Mr. Opp, hastily. "You go right on and tell her I'm
coming."
When he reentered the dining-room, he held his hat in his hand.
"I find a urgent matter of business calls me back home; for only a few
moments, I trust," he said apologetically, with bows and smiles. "If the
banquet will kindly proceed, I will endeavor to return in ample time for
the final speeches."
With the air of a monarch taking temporary leave of his subjects, he
turned his back upon the gay, protesting crowd, upon the feast prepared
in his honor, upon the speech-making, so dear to his heart. Tramping
through the snow of the deserted street, through the lonely graveyard,
and along the river road, he went to bind up the head of a china doll,
and to wipe away the tears of a little half-crazed sister.
He wears the same checked suit as when we saw him first, worn and
frayed, to be sure, but carefully pressed for the occasion, the same
brave scarf and pin, and watch fob, though the watch is missing.
Passing out of sight with the sleet in his face, and the wind cutting
through his finery, he whistles as he goes, such a plucky, sturdy,
hopeful whistle as calls to arms the courage that lies slumbering in the
hearts of men.