Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 44, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 December 1885 — PETER WHITNEY'S FATE. [ARTICLE]

PETER WHITNEY'S FATE.

“Mr. Whitney?” “Sir?” replied the individual ad-•dre-sed. “I want you to cross to France this evening.” “Very well, sir,” said Mr. Whitney, quietly. “()r to-morrow morning will do. Here are your instructions. Read these papers carefully; make the best arrangements you can. I may want the house—you will see all about it iu these •documents.” “Am i to purchase the premises, sir?” “No, no; they have come to me—to the firm—in consequence of an advance made by my old partner, who, you know, died the other day. Take posses ion; Bee what the place is like; whether it will do for a summer residence. You know the kind of thing I want to take the children to, and I can depend on you. ” Mr. Whitney bowed and said he thought Mr. Barnstone might depend (n him. He took the deeds, made bis arrangements at the office, tidied and tied up his papers on his desk, and then strolled homeward at three o'clock to pack his portmanteau. He was a man of about forty - good-natured, trustful, and trustworthy—a man of | whom little cliildi'en always stopped to inquire “the time,” and were satisfied even if he did not drag out his watch—a man who piloted old ladies and blind men over dangerous Loudon crossings —a man beloved by animals and children, and who cherished an affection for a cat, which followed him as faithfully as a dog in and about his house at Bnxton. Such was Peter Whitney—a somewhat impulsive man, like his great namesake—a person deserving of every confidence in the legal employment ■which he pursued, but not likely to make a very large fortune in anything —he was too easy-going as well as too good-natured. Mr. Peter Whitney strolled homewards, first to Ludgate Hill Station.. Jo take a train to Bnxton, where iu xntelielor apartments he passed hi|i quiet evenings. Ho was crossing ChfMMjery Lane, by the post-office, when'4 young and decidedly pretty girl, a French girl, stopped him, and said -inf broken English: . “Sare, would you be so kind I ?—you look very kind—could you toll me %here I can find the Lincoln’s Inn Fields ?” “Lincoln’s Inn) mademoiselle; roais certainemeut; je ” “Ah! monsieur parle francais," she exclaimed, interrupting him Je4jtiih a pleased expression. v* l - Then Whitney, who was a#' scholar, addressed her in h&r native tongue, and walked with her a few paces in order to put her in; the right direction. So they went through. Lincoln’s Inn, chatting, and he found her destination was none other than Mr. Barnstone’s offiee. Having parted with his yoqug companion at the office, he hurried away to Ludgate again. He had learnt from a slip of paper she gave him that the fair foreigner’s name was Pulcherie Malais, but he did not inquire her business in Lincoln’s Inn Fields after lie had announced her arrival to the clerk in charge. “A very pretty girl indeed,” murmured this middle-aged bachelor; “a charming face; and what a pretty name! Pulcherie; quite fitting, too, for a wonder. Malais is not so nice, but it may •one day be changed. Ah me!” Thinking of Pulcherie, Peter Whitney entered the train; still thinking of her, he went home, and packed “Pul•clierie” in his portmanteau. But somehow that young person escaped, for sha was with him all the evening ;Jn tlijy train to Newhaven; she Clos ed ther channel with him iu the Normandy, and reached Dieppe with him in the warm autumn daylight, as bright and fresh a memory as ever! Oh, Peter, Peter! truly thou art in love! The premises which Peter Whitney had to investigate and arrange for were situated some little di tance up the coast, at or near a village which boasted a small river and a fishing population of amphibious habits. The place shall not be more particularly described, but the.river flowed through the valley of the Ange, and the stream and the increasing village bear the same name. Fishermen, dealers in cattle—for the volley is pastoral—lace-makers, these

i are the inhabitants,, and they folio iv I their peaceful occupations contentedly, j It was a very fine morning when Mr. Whitney reached the village; he had walked over from Dieppe the day after i his arrival in that town, and found the people en fete in the village. It was a holiday—a holv-day, apj parently, for the inhabitants had just ! come from the church, and the girls i were dressed in holiday garb, walking | in picturesque groups; laughing, chattering, and while avoiding, yet glancing saucily at the young men, who, standing or seated, also in pairs or threes, would discuss the fishing and the cattle, while always keeping the young ladies in sight. A happy, pleasant picture; and Peter Whitney looked on at the scene with great delight. He determined to give himself a holiday, too. So he made friends directly, and inquiries indirectly concerning the premises he had come to take over and have transferred. He learned thdt the house lay away from the village; it was a mere farm-house amid trees, inclosed by a wall and paling. It had been untenanted some time. The family had sold everything, and quitted the village some weeks before. “They were poor?” suggested the Englishman. The man addressed shrugged his shoulders as he replied: “Well, not entirely. The good man and his wife had died. His sister and their daughter lived in the house till the last harvest. The son was away in the army of Africa. Young Mr. Desmoulins, the miller’s son, had paid much attention to the young lady, and had been repulsed by her. So, being the owner of the property, he had taken his revenge, and managed to frighten them away. Poor girl! He was a mauvais sujet!" “But he had no right to do so,” said Whitney. “The house was mortgaged to an Englishman. He is dead now. It was handed over as security for advances to the young soldier’s father.” That is as may he. The house is closed up, the afficlies of the sale are on the door; it is desolate, empty.” “Is it far from here?” ~1/ “Well, no. A walk of perhaps half an hour or so will bring you there—through the trees yonder. You see those tall poplars, those to the eastward ?” Peter Whitney nodded assent. “Up there you will find the place; it stands above the road on your right hand; a little path leads up to the house. You cannot mistake it.” “Thank you, monsieur,” replied Whitney. “I think I will go and see it” Peter Whitney made his way toward the poplars, and passed them. He then plunged into a more wooded country, and the road tended south-east. Then he came to a gate and a path on the right, as indicated. He entered and ascended the path, passing in tlie direction where he had come. But in a moment he recoiled in astonishment. Seated on a ruined portion of a wall was a young soldier, apparently on furlough. A small bundle lay beside him in the rank grass; a short stick was still hooked within it. The man’s attitude exhibited the deepest dejection. His head rested, hatless, on his arm. His attitude, the limp and hanging right arm, the hidden face, the whole pose of the poor fellow told a sad tale of disappointment. He had returned full of life aud ardor to the place, perhaps his home, aud found it deserted, the torn bills of the sale still flapping idly hi the autumn wind which stirred his tangled locks. Peter Whitney, notwithstanding his very unromantio name and calling, was eminently sympathetic. Of course he had no business to be so, but Nature, though she may fit us for certain callings, does not deprive us of our better feelings. We may harden ourselves, and pride ourselves upon pur sternness. But Peter didn’t. Lawyer though he was, he was tender-hearted. “Poor chap!” he mentally remarked; “he has found his home deserted. Our house, by the way. Ah! I shall gain spine information here.” It was rather a contrast with the scene which the Englishman had just left by the shore. Here the solitude tended to sorrow and to love; to the pity which is born of sorrow, and akin to love. The setting sun threw its glory upon the tree-tops in the southwest, and the poor young soldier lay despairing, travel-stained, and overcome with grief, as the shadows crept slowly along the ground in sympathy. The spectator, after a while, advanced, and then paused. Again he advanced and touched the young man, who arose with suddenness, angry at being disturbed. He glanced at the Englishman, and turned round again without speaking. “My friend,” said Mr. Whitney, kindly, “can I assist you? You are ill, sorrowful; I may help you. Do you know this place?” Know the place, indeed! Was he not a native of it? Had lie not lived there unlit the conscription came, and when ihe was paid to take the place of another young man ? The money was Jjyelcppgi'J P Ho much the strangor managed to 1 gather from the half-indignant remarks , of the soldier, who ftt length yielded to j the kindly influence the Englishman ! generally exercised. He sat up, this i young Frenchman, and, after a few , minutes, recovered his vivacity. He ! told how he had been treated. | “ i'ou went as a substitute, then ?” “Yes; my relatives were poor; the man had held out threats. I loved my sister—oh! where is she ? ’ Monsieur, • we were not always poor; we held up i our heads once. The Republicans j brought, onr family down. We were j for the old regime, ive others, but I I went. My poor sister promised for I marriage by her enemy and mine! Oh,

Pulcherie! ma belle soeur, ma pauvre petite!” “Pulcherie your sister! Not Pulcherie Malais ?” “The same, monsieur. How could you know! You are*English,” said the astonished Frenchman. “Yes; but I am also interested in ftiis house and in her. An English firm owns the property; the rent has not been paid; the former owner, an Englishman, is dead; all is chaos; but your sister ” "Yes, yes: tell me of her.” “She is in London—was in London a few days ago. ” “Then Peter W T hitney told the young man of his meeting with the young lady, and of his having escorted her to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. “Ah, yes! it is there her benefactor used to live. She has, no doubt, gone to him. Our aunt knew him well. He was a lawyer—un avocat!” “What! an English solicitor? What was his name ?” “Bernardin—M. Jtlles Benardin—he was our friend. He helped us; he assisted my father—my poor father —and lent him money on security. Then mon j>ere, he died, and my mother already had passed to heaven. My sister and my aunt remained. Young M. Desmoulins assisted us, for he pretended to love Pulcherie, monsieur; and I, like a fool, went away and left her. His attentions aroused the fears of my aunt and sister. They wrote to me. I was in the South; 1 could not come. Then they found the wretch Desmoulins had a claim on them; he broke up their home. Oh, monsieur, I wish I had died!” Peter Whitney noticed that the young man felt very bitter against the young Desmoulins, aud feared he would proceed to violence, so he said: “Never mind; L can explain it. M. Bernardin is dead. Julius Bernardin was the partner in my patron’s office. I have come to claim the property. I will manage M. Desmoulins. Leave him to me.” A sudden inspiration had seized the middle-aged bachelor lawyer. He had already a romance; he would find Desmoulins and Pulcherie, and then So he persuaded the young soldier to return with him, and assume his civilian attire; to quit the army if he liked afterwards, but first to come to England and find Pulcherie and the kind aunt. After much parley, this was all agreed to. Next day the lawyer called on M. Desmoulins; found him a bully and a roue; quelled him by stern threats of exposure in the tribunal and in the village, where he was hated. Finally, he succeeded in getting from him a quittance of all claims, and, with the French avocat who had accompanied him, took his leave. In fifteen hours he was in London. The business had developed into a romance, and Peter Whitney was as eager as a boy. * * * * * “Then you do not think the place will suit me, ” said Mr. Barnstone, after talking the matter over. “It is dull, quiet, not near the sea. No; I will let it to some young couple who want to live and love alone. They may have it for a song. It’s no use to me, and only a farm-house after all!” “May—l—have the—refusal, sir?” asked Peter, timidly. “You, Whitney, you? Are you going to be a benedict, after all? Well, I am surprised. My good sir, certainly. You are a faithful, good fellow. Take it as a wedding present. It will cost me little, remember, and may do you good,” he added, hastily. “No thanks, please.” “Miss Mallys wants to see you, sir,” said a lad at this juncture. “Let her come up,” said Mr. Barnstone. “My charming French client,” he added: “You shall see her. She is connected with this very house—my tenant. Ah! here she is. ” As he finished speaking, Mademoiselle Pulcherie entered with a little woman, whom she called “ma tante.” She at once greeted Peter Whitney, and in broken English and more voluble French explained to Mr.Barnstone and her aunt alternately how she had become acquainted with the “monsieur.” “Then you actually directed mademoiselle here?” said Mr.Barnstone’. “If you had known, you might have saved yourself the journey. Have you any news of your nephew, madame ?” “Alas! no; he was in Africa, in the 144th of the line. He will come and find it desolate—our home. We must return, monsieur, to Dieppe. You have been an angel to us, indeed.” “Not a bit, madame, only doing my duty; in this instance a positive pleasure. Have you—pardon me —all necessaries for your journey ?” “Madame need take no journey to see her nephew,” said Peter, in Frenoh. • “How, monsieur ? Is it possible—he is—he is dead ?” “No, madame; alive, well, and in London. He returned with me; I will bring you to him. I met him near the old home yonder.” Then Peter, in his plain but sympathetic wav, told his story, and the ladies’ eyes filled with tears of joy and happiness. “Go,” said Mr. Barnstone, wiping his spectacles. “Run away, good .people; I am busy.” So they went and found Antoire, as had been promised, and after awhile the three returned to Dieppe. The following month, plain, good Peter Whitney crossed the Channel, and spent three weeks in France near his new i friends. Lo and behold! the year after the old farm-house was again inhabited; not by Antoine, who had gone away on promotion—an officer; not by the kind aunt, for she lay in the village churchyard; but by “M. and Madame Yeet-

nee,” as they tvere called, who had come for “their honeymoon.” So Peter Whitney, tbe“old bachelor," met his fate—a charming wife and some fortune—in Pulcherie Malais—all, ae some think, “by the merest accident,” hut you and I know better.