Mr. Opp
Copyright© 2024 by Alice Caldwell Hegan Rice
Chapter 18
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.”
“‘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.?”