OPPORTUNITY by Sydney Dayre

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Dec 3, 1894

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 20, No. 56.

OPPORTUNITY.

By Sydney Dayre

BY SYDNEY DAYRE.

Miss Abigail Meeker walked up the graveled path to the porch with the western exposure, on which was seated her friend, Mrs. Brewster.

"How d'ye do?" she called, as she drew near. "I don't wonder you like to be outdoors. I thought there was a real chill in the house, which is no more'n's to be looked for late in September. But when you get out in this meller sunshine—my!"

She panted as she seated herself, giving a pleased glance about her.

"Well, I've said it time and again, and I say it yet, that if there's one place that seems to get more o' the real fall tints than another, it's them maples o' your'n. Look a' them reds and purples. Solomon in all his glory, sure enough."

"Abigail," said her friend, and the tone brought Miss Abigail's eyes at once to her face, to meet a look which caused a sudden cloud to fall on her own.

"What's the matter, Jane?"

"Has there been anything heard from Susan Pettit?"

"Not as I know of. I didn't know anybody expected to hear from her."

"No, that's it." Mrs. Brewster set her lips and shook her head.

"What is a-troublin' you, Jane?"

"Do you know when she was expected home?"

"Why, no. I don't know as anybody knew. Did they?"

"I s'pose not. That's it."

"What on earth's the matter, Jane? You fairly make me creep, lookin' so woe-begone. What is it? Anything wrong about Susan Pettit? I didn't know you knew her well enough to take it hard if there was."

"Yes, there 'tis again—I didn't," said Mrs. Brewster, in a deeply pained voice. "Abigail, wasn't her initials S. J.?"

"Like enough they was. Let me see—yes—I remember wonderin' what the J. stood for when she put down her name for a quarter on the subscription paper to send Jerry Day to the hospital. Susan Pettit never give much, but what she did give she always give willin'. But what—"

"Have you seen this?" Mrs. Brewster held up a copy of the weekly edition of a newspaper in the nearest large city.

"No."

"An awful railroad accident. One car jumped right into another and crushed people's lives out. A dozen killed and plenty more wounded. Now listen: 'Killed, S. J. Pettit.'"

The two neighbors gazed into each other's eyes.

"Couldn't it be a mistake?"

"It ain't a common name. 'Twas a train—see—" Mrs. Brewster leaned over with the paper, and pointed to some lines in the short chapter of the tragedy, "comin' this way. That was why I wanted to know if you knew when she was a-comin'. But—" Mrs. Brewster's voice broke in a sob—"nobody knew."

"You don't mean it," said Miss Abigail, taking up the paper with a little air of desperation. "I can't believe it. Dead! I can't seem to sense it. Such a chipper little creature she was, in spite of her lameness, always had a pleasant word and a smile for folks, and all the children loved her. Well," with a tremble in her voice, "if I had it to do over again, I'm free to confess I'd do different by Susan Pettit."

With another huge sob Mrs. Brewster covered her face with her hands and cried.

"All the time that woman's lived here amongst us," she presently began, "I've had it on my mind that when I got round to it, I'd try to make things a little easier and pleasanter for her. How long is it since she come?"

"Six or seven year, I guess."

"Yes. And there was some of us that felt to lay it up again' her that she was niece to old Jacob Hart, that was always suspected of that mortgage fraud. And when she come there to take care of him when he was dying, and then lived on in that little mite of a house he'd left her, why—if I haven't done a neighbor's part by her, which I haven't—may the Lord forgive me."

"You needn't talk," said Miss Abigail. "Many and many's the time I've went by there and see her settin' alone lookin' out in such a kind of a pitiful way—like she was longin' for someone to come in and be a little sociable with her. I thought I hadn't time, and I hadn't much, but I might 'a' made time and been none the worse for it. Oh, me, it was an opportunity, and now it's gone from me! She was a stranger, and I didn't take her in."

Left to herself an hour later, Mrs. Brewster sat face to face with her lost opportunity, and with every thought the sting of self-reproach grew deeper.

"She was so poor, and I didn't hold out a hand to her. I might have stopped for her as I drove by to church, when I knew she was often kept to home by her lameness. I meant to send her apples and things—and I didn't. I thought sometimes of sending her my religious paper when I'd done reading it—and I let the time slip."

There was a shiver of excitement as Miss Abigail Meeker passed through the village on her way home, telling her startling news.

Does any life go out among us—poor, careless procrastinators that we are—without leaving behind its train of bitter thought of what we might have done and did not do, of the words which might have been spoken to ears now closed, of acts which might have brought comfort and cheer? May we be pitied in our aching for a sound from dumb lips in acknowledgment of blessing which should have been bestowed—in our craving for time, time, time in which to do the thousand and one things which never now can be done.

More than one turned with dimming eyes towards the window from which the patient face had looked out.

"I meant to carry some o' them flower seeds to her. She'd 'a' liked 'em—she set such store by flowers."

"I could 'a' stopped and plowed up her bit of a garden just as well as not."

"Why didn't I invite her to my quiltin'?"

"I might—" "I could have—" "I meant to—" "I wish I had—" "Why didn't I—?"

Miss Susan Pettit was brought home to the little house for the funeral, crushed and broken—the plain, sealed coffin borne reverently among those to whom the awful thing came as the excitement of a lifetime. Hysterical sobs and wailing were heard as flowers were piled over the still form.

"I didn't bring one of 'em," said Mrs. Brewster, pointing to them in half-indignant agitation. "No, I didn't. I've read a piece of poetry about layin' flowers on folkses' graves—and"—Mrs. Brewster choked—"never layin' deeds of loving-kindness onto their lives. And—have you read the piece about her in the paper, all about the sweetness and loveliness? Queer, hain't it?" with a gasping laugh, "that nobody never seemed to find it out till— No, you don't catch me carryin' flowers to her grave. They might 'a' comforted her livin'."

The house was shut and locked after the funeral, its closed blinds bearing a mournful look to those who passed. It was said that it had fallen to a distant connection of Miss Susan, but no one knew certainly.

Three weeks later an unpretentious, shabby-neat little figure left the afternoon train and walked with limping steps up the street of the small village, followed by wide-staring, wondering eyes.

"Hey?"

"That ain't Susan Pettit!"

"Well, if she wa'n't dead I'd say 'twas."

"But she is dead—"

"I don't care, it's her, anyways."

Miss Susan went quietly up to the door of the little house, still dreary with its closed windows, took the key from her pocket, and opened it.

"It was all a mistake," she said, her face beaming in appreciation of the cordiality with which the amazed neighbors crowded about her. "I wasn't hurt a mite, but they got names mixed up. And I didn't try to set things right, because, you see, there wasn't anybody it would make any difference to, except the folks belongin' to the poor soul that was dead. And they don't know yet who it was in that— Ah, me!"

Miss Susan shuddered at the dreadful memory.

"O Susan, it does—it did make a difference!" cried Abigail Meeker, wiping her eyes. "Where have you been all this time, as it seems pretty sure you ain't been in heaven."

"I've been with a lady that got hurt. I took care of her that night"—Miss Susan closed her eyes with another nervous shudder—"and the next day, when she come to, nothing would do but I must go with her. She's getting well now, so I come home."—N. Y. Observer.