12. Whittaker's Ship Comes In
Poverty is always superstitious, if we may believe the Bonhorarne Beranger, and Whittaker, driven to and fro between a growing love for Poxy Adams and an honest sense of obligation to pay for his education, had one superstition. His father had, four years before, invested all bis small savings in a whaling vessel sailing out of the port of New Bedford. News had come from the Arctic seas which led to the belief that the ship was lost. Distress at the loss of his property, with the superadded grief of losing his wife soon after, had caused the death of Whittaker's father. But the son had never been quite convinced that the " Petrel " had ijone down. And now he even dreamed at night of the "Petrel," weather-worn but richly laden, sailing into New Bedford harbor with Roxy on her prow, while he stood in the crowd of rejoicing stockholders, anxious friends of sailors, curious idlers, on the busy pier watching her return. But the " Petrel " never, except in Whittaker's dreams, floated again over the waters of Buzzard's Bay. He hoped in vain for his dividend, and the weary wives of sailors on the " Petrel " waited in vain for husbands whose grave-stones were the icebergs.
But if the " Petrel " did not come, another ship did. The rich and childless deacon, who out of his large means had lent young Whittaker enough to finish his education for the ministry, died, and remembering that notes and bonds could not add to his comfort in heaven, he willed to his beneficiary the amount of his debt. On the very morning of Twonnet's fortune-telling Whittaker had gone feverishly to the village post-office in the hack pari of a dry goods store, to look for the letter that should ;iing him news of the " Petrel." He readily paid the thirty-seven and a half cents postage on a letter from his brother, and opened it eagerly to read, not the return of the "Petrel," bat the death of Deacon Borden and his own release from bondage. I am afraid that his is at his deliverance from debt exceeded his sorrow at the death of his benefactor. He would now carry out a plan which he had lately conceived of starting a school, for there was no good one in the village. The two hundred dollars a year which this would bring, added to his two hundred from the Home Missionary Society and the one hundred of salary from the church, would be ample for his support and that of a wife.
He was so elated that he could not quite keep his secret. He had gotten into a habit of talking rather freelv to Twonnet. Her abundant animal spirits were a relief to his sobriety, and he had observed that her regard for him was kindly and disinterested. So with his letter full of news, he began to walk the upper piazza, waiting for the blithe Twonnet to come out, for she had returned home and was now, as she " made up " the beds, singing and chatting to her younger sisters half in French and half in English. In circumstances such as his, one must talk to somebody. Once he paused in his pacing to and fro and looked off at the deep green of the Kentucky hills, overlaid by a thin blue atmospheric enamel ; he looked through the grape-vines which over-clambered the upper piazza, to the great, peaceful current of the Ohio, flowing steadily in a majestic stillness ; a placid giant is that river ; he listened to the red-bird in a neighboring cherry-tree pouring out an ecstasy of amorous song to his mate, as he leaped joyously from bough to bough ; and he, the grave, severe young minister, rejoiced in hills, and sky, and river and singing birds, half reproaching himself all the time fri being so happy and feeling like a good boy that, nnaer some impulse quite irresistible, has suddenly played truant.
Twonnet was long in appearing and Mr. Whittaker resumed his pacing to and fro, glancing every now and then at the hills and the river, and listening in a dreamy way to the delicious melody of the red-bird and the occasional soft cooing of a turtle-dove whose nest was in an apple-tree just beyond the garden fence. At last Twonnet came out on the piazza or porch, as they call it in Indiana and Whittaker told her, with what solemnity he could, of the death of the old deacon, and then of his own good fortune.
" I'm glad," said Twonnet, beginning to guess what had kept Whittaker from visiting Roxy.
"Glad the deacon's dead?" queried Whittaker, smiling.
" I do not know your friend and I can't be very sorry for him. But I do know you and I am glad, since he must die, that he was good enough to give you your debt. It shows he was prepared to go, you see, so my pleasure is quite religious and right," and she laughed roguishly.
" Besides, you don't seem heart-broken about it, and "
but here she checked herself, seeing that she had given pain.
" I am afraid I have been selfish," said Whittaker, all the gladness had gone now, " but you don't know what a nightmare this debt has been. I don't wonder thai debt makes men criminals it hardens the heart."
"Well, Mr. Whittaker, if he had wanted you to feel sorry when he had gone, he onght to have given you the money while he was alive," said Twonnet, lightly. Then ahc started away, but looked back over her shoulder to say teasingly, " Now, Mr. Whittaker, you'll go to see some body, I'll bet."
"Twonnet," he called after her, and when she had stopped he asked : " Is there any reason why I shouldn't go to see somebody ? "
" Of course not. Every reason why you should go right off. You are not too late, but you will be if you wait." This last was said with the old bantering toue, and Whittaker looked after her as she disappeared, saying to himself :
" A splendid girl. Pity she is so giddy."
After mature reflection lasting fifteen minutes, he decided to call on Roxy Adams that very afternoon. He had not understood Twonnet's warning, but some apprehension of grave disaster to his new-born hope, and the nervousness of an austere man who has not often found duty and inclination coincident, made him in haste to forestall any misadventure. He ate but little dinner, not even enjoying his favorite dish of dandelion greens cooked in good Swiss fashion. Mr. Lefaure watched anxiously and at last inquired with earnestness :
" Est-ce ue vous ne votes portez jpas bien, Monsieur? "
But Whittaker smi'ed and assured the host that he was well, but had no appetite.
Twonnet, at last, solemnly told her father that Mr. Whittaker had received a letter that very morning in forming him of the death of an old friend, and this information tallied so little with the expression on the minister's face that Twonnet's father was quite suspicious that the girl was playing one of her little pranks on him. But when he looked again at Whittaker's face it was serious enough.
After dinner the minister tried to get ready' with great deliberation. By severe constraint he compelled himself to move slowly, and to leave the little front gate of palings, painted black atop, in a direction opposite to that which his feet longed to take.
" The other way," cried the mischievous voice of Twonnet, from behind a honevsuckle which she affected to be tying up to its trellis.
" Presently," replied he, finding it so much easier not to keep his secret, and pleased with Twonnet's friendly sympathy. But that word, spoken to her half in tenderness, pierced her like an arrow. A sharp pang of jealousy and I know not what, shot through her heart in that moment ; the sunshine vanished from her face. She had accomplished her purpose in sending Mr. Whittaker to Roxy, and now her achievement suddenly became bitter to her. She ran upstairs and closed her door and let down the blind of green slats, then she buried her head in the great feather pillows and cried her eyes red. She felt lonely and forsaken of her friends. She was mad with the minister and with Roxy.
But Whittaker walked away in the sunlight full ol hope and happiness.