The Story of a Whim (3 page)

Now and
again he would raise his eyes to the pictured Christ and drop them again, reverently. It seemed to him this morning as if that Presence were living and had come to him in spite of all his railings at fate, his bitterness and scoffing, and his reckless life. It seemed to say with that steady gaze: "What will you do with me? I am here, and you cannot get away from my drawing."

It was not as if his life had been filled formerly with tradition and teaching; for his mother had died when he was a little fellow, and the thin-lipped,
hardworking maiden aunt who had cared for him in her place, whatever religion she might have had in her heart, never thought it necessary to speak it out beyond requiring a certain amount of decorum on Sunday and regular attendance at Sunday school.

In Sunday school it had been his lot to be under a good elder who read the questions from a lesson leaf and looked hel
plessly at the boys who were employing their time in more pleasurable things the while. The very small amount of holy things he had absorbed from his days at Sunday schools had failed to leave him with a strong idea of the love of God or any adequate knowledge of the way to be saved.

In later years, of course, he had listened listlessly to preaching; and, when he went to college—a small, insignificant one,—he had come in contact with religious people; but here, too, he had heard as one hears a thing in which one has not the slightest interest.

He had gathered and held this much, that the God in whom the Christian world believed was holy and powerful, and the most of the world were culprits. Heretofore God's love had passed him by unaware.

Now the pictured eyes of the Son of God seemed to breathe out tenderness and yearning. For the first time in his
life a thought of the possibility of love between his soul and God came to him.

His work
that morning was much more complicated than usual. He wasted little time in getting breakfast. He had to dean house. He could not bear the idea that the old regime and the new should touch shoulders as they did behind that screen. So with broom and scrubbing-brush he went to work.

He had things in
pretty good shape at last, and was just coming in from giving the horse a belated breakfast when a strange impulse seized him.

At his feet, creeping all over the white sand in delicate tracery, were wild pea blossoms, crimson, white, and pink. He had never noticed them before. What were they but weeds?
But with a new insight into possibilities in art, he stooped and gathered a few of them, and, holding them awkwardly, went into the house to put them into his new vase. He felt half-ashamed of them, and held them behind him as he entered; but with the shame there mingled an eagerness to see how they would look in the vase on the "blue bureau thing."

'"Will you walk into my parlor?'

Said the spider to the fly,

'Tis
the prettiest little parlor

That ever you did spy,'"

sang
out a rich tenor voice in greeting.

"I say, Chris! What are you setting
up for? What does it all mean? Ain't going to get married or nothing, are you, man? Because I'll be obliged to go to town and get my best coat out of pawn if you are." "Aw, now that is great!" drawled another voice, English in its accents. "Got anything good to dwink? Twot it out, and we'll be better able to appwetiate all this lugshuwy!"

The young man felt a rising tendency to swear. He had forgotten all ab
out the fellows and their agreement to meet and have the day out in jollification. So great had been the spell upon him that he had forgotten to put the little feminine things away from curious eyes.

There he stood foolishly in the middle of his own floor, a bunch of "weeds" in his
hand which he had not the sense to drop, while afar the sound of a cracked church bell gave a soft reminder, which the distant popping of firecrackers at a cabin down the road confirmed, that this was Christmas Day. Christmas Day, and the face of the Christ looking down at him tenderly from his own wall.

The oath that was rising to his lips at his foolish plight
was stayed. He could not take that name in vain with those eyes upon him. The spell was not broken even yet.

With a sudden quick settling of his lips, he threw back his head, daring in his eyes, and walked over to the glass vase to fill it with water. It was like him to
brave it out and tell the whole story now that he was caught.

He was a broad-shouldered young man, firmly knit, with a head well set on his shoulders, and but for a certain careless slouch in his gait might have been fine to look upon. His face was not handsome, but he had good brown eyes with deep hazel lights in them that kindled when he looked at you.

His hair was red, deep and rich, and decidedly curly. His gestures were strong and regular. If there had not been a certain hardness about his face he would have been interesting, but that look made one turn away disappointed.

His companions were both big men like himself. The Englishman—one of that large class of second or third sons with a good education and a poor fortune, and very little practical knowledge how to better it, so many of whom come to Florida to try orange-growing—was loose-jointed and awkward, with pale blue eyes, hay-colored hair, and a large jaw with loose lips. The other was handsome and dark, with a weak mouth and daring black
eyes which continually warred with one another.

Both were dressed
in rough clothes, trousers tucked into boots with spurs, dark flannel shirts, and soft riding-hats. The Englishman wore gloves and affected a certain loud style in dress. They carried their riding-whips, and walked undismayed upon the bright colors of the rug.

"O, I say now, get off there with those great clods of boots, can't you?" exclaimed Christie, with a sudden descent of house
wifely carefulness. "Anybody'd think you'd been brought up in a barn, Armstrong."

Armstrong put on his
eye-glasses,—he always wore them as if they were a monocle,—and examined the rug carefully.

"Aw, I beg
pawdon! Awfully nice, ain't it? Sorry I didn't bring my patent leathers along. Remind me next time, please, Mawtimer."

Christie told the story of his Christmas gifts in as few words as possible.
Somehow he did not feel like elaborating it.

The guests seized upon the photograph of the girls, and became hilarious over it.

"Takes you for a girl, does she?" said Mortimer. "That’s great! Which one is she? I choose that fine one with snapping black eyes and handsome teeth. She knew her best point, or she wouldn't have laughed when her picture was taken."

Victoria Landis's eyes would have snapped indeed, could she have heard the comments upon herself and the others; but she was safe out of hearing, far up in the North.

The comments went on most freely. Christie found himself disgusted with his friends. Only yesterday he would have laughed at all they said, and now what made the difference? Was it that letter? Would the other fellows feel the same if he should read it to them?

But
he never would! The red blood stole up in his face. He could hear their shouts of laughter now over the tender little girlish phrases. It should not be desecrated. He was glad indeed that he had put it in his coat pocket the night before.

There seemed to be a sacredness about the letter and the pictures and all the things, and it went against the grain to hear the coarse laughter of his friends.

At last they began to speak about the girl in the centre of the group, the clear-eyed, firm-mouthed one whom he had selected for Hazel. His blood boiled. He could stand it no longer. With one sweep of his long, strong arm he struck the picture from them with "Aw, shut up! You make me tired!" and, picking it up, put it in his pocket.

Where
at the fun of his companions took a new turn. It suited their fancy to examine the toilet-table decked out in blue and lace. The man named Mortimer knew the lace collars and handkerchiefs for woman's attire, and they turned upon their most unwilling host and decked him in fine array.

He sat helpless and mad, with a large lace collar over his shoulders, and another hanging down in front arranged over the bureau-cover, which was spread across him as a background, while a couple of lace-bordered handkerchiefs adorned his head.

"And what are you going to say to her for all these pretty presents, Christie, my girl?" laughed Mortimer.

"Say to her!" gasped Christie.

It had not occurred to him before that it would be necessary to say anything. A horrible oppression seemed to be settling down upon his chest. He wished that the whole array of things were back in their boxes and on their way to their ridiculous owners. He got up, and kicked at the rug, and tore the lace finery from his neck, stumbling on the lavender bedroom slippers which his tormentors had stuck on the toes of his shoes.

"Why, certainly, man,—I beg your pardon,—my dear girl—" went on Mortimer. "You don't intend to be so rude as not to reply, o
r say, 'I thank you very kindly.’”

Christie's thick auburn brows settled into a scowl, but the attention of the others
was drawn to the side of the room where the organ stood.

"That’
s awfully fine, don't you know?" remarked Armstrong, leveling his eye-glasses at the picture. "It’s by somebody great, I don’t just remember who."

“F
ine frame," said Mortimer tersely as he opened the organ and sat down before it.

And
the new owner of the picture felt for the first time in his acquaintance with these two men that they were somehow out of harmony with him.

He glanced up at t
he picture with the color mounting in his face, half pained for the friendly gaze that had been so lightly treated. He did not in the least understand himself.

But
the fingers touching the keys now were not altogether unaccustomed. A soft, sweet strain broke through the room, and swelled louder and fuller until it seemed to fill the little log house and be wafted through the open windows to the world outside.

Christie stopped in his walk across the room, held by the music.
It seemed the full expression of all he had thought and felt during the last few hours.

A few
chords, and the player abruptly reached out to the pile of singing-books above him, and, dashing the book open at random, began playing, and in a moment in a rich, sweet tenor sang. The others drew near, and each took a book and joined in.

"He holds the key of all unknown,

And I am glad;

If other hands should hold the key,

Or if He trusted it to me,

I might be sad."

The song was a new creed spoken to Christie's soul by a voice that seemed to fit the eyes in the picture. What was the matter with him? He did not at all know. His whole life seemed suddenly shaken.

It may be that the fact of his long residence alone in that desolate land, with but few acquaintances, had made him more ready to be swayed by this sudden stirring of new thoughts and feelings. Certain it was that Christie Bailey was not acting like himself.

But
the others were interested in the singing. It had been long since they had had an instrument to accompany them, and they enjoyed the sound of their own voices. They would have preferred, per-haps, a book of college songs, or, better still, the latest street songs; but, as they were not at hand, and "Gospel Hymns" were, they found pleasure even in these.

On and on they sang, through hymn after hymn, their voices growing stronger as they found
pieces which had in them some hint of familiarity.

The music filled the house, and floated out into the bright summer Ch
ristmas world outside; and presently Christie felt rather than saw a movement at the window, and, looking up, beheld it dark with little, eager faces of the black children. Their supply of firecrackers having given out, they had sought for further celebration, and had been drawn with delight by the unusual sounds. Christie dropped into a chair and gazed at them in wonder, his eyes growing troubled and the frown deepening. He could not make it out. Here he had been for some time, and these little children had never ventured to his premises. Now here they were in full force, their faces fairly shining with delight, their eyes rolling with wonder and joy over the music.

It seemed a
fulfillment of the prophecy of the letter that had come with the organ. He began to tremble at the thought of the possibilities that might be entailed upon him with his newly acquired and unsought-for property. And yet he could not help a feeling of pride that all these things were his and that a girl of such evident refinement and cultivation had taken the trouble to send them. To be sure, she wouldn't have done it at all if she had had any idea who or what he was, but that did not matter. She did not know, and she never would know.

He saw the children's curious eyes wander over the room and rest here and there delighted, and his own eyes followed theirs. How altogether nice it was! What a desolate hole it had been before! How was it he had not noticed?

Amid all these thoughts the concert came suddenly to a dlose. The organist turned upon his stool, and, addressing the audience in the window, remarked, with a good many flourishes: "That finishes the program  for today, dear friends. Allow me to announce that a Sunday school will be held in this place on next Sunday afternoon at half-past two o'clock, at which you are all invited to be present. Do you understand? Half-past two. And bring your friends. Now will you all come?"

Amid many a giggle and a bobbing of round black heads they answered as one boy and one girl, "Yes,
sah!" and went rollicking down the road in haste to spread the news, their bare feet flying through the sand, and vanished as they had come.