The Story of a Whim

by Grace Livingston Hill

  It seemed a fulfillment of the prophecy of the letter that came with the organ. He trembled at the possibilities that might be required of him with his newly acquired and unsought-for property. And yet he couldn’t 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 any idea who or what he was, but that didn’t matter. She didn’t know, and she never would.

  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 was before! Why hadn’t he noticed?

  Amid all these thoughts the concert suddenly closed. 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, and 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 to spread the news, their bare feet flying through the sand, and vanished as they had come.

  Chapter 4

  A Letter That Wrote Itself

  What did you do that for?” thundered Christie, suddenly realizing what the outcome of this performance would be.

  “Don’t speak so loud, Christie, dear. It isn’t ladylike, you know. I was merely saving you the trouble of announcing the services. You’ll have a good attendance, I’m sure, and we’ll come and help you out with the music,” said Mortimer in a sweetly unconscious tone.

  Christie came at him with clenched fist, which he laughingly dodged and then went on bantering. But the two young men soon left, for Christie was angry and wasn’t good company. They tried to coax him off to meet some of their other companions, but he answered shortly, “No,” and they left him to himself.

  Left alone, he was in no happy frame of mind. He’d intended to go with them. There’d be something good to eat and, of course, something to drink, and cards and a jolly good time all around. He could forget for a little while his hard luck, the slowness of the oranges, and his own wasted life and feel some of the joy of living. But he had the temper that went with his hair, and now nothing would induce him to go.

  Could something else be holding him back, too? A subtle something that he didn’t understand, somehow connected with the letter and the picture and the organ?

  Well, if there was, he didn’t stop to puzzle it out. Instead, he threw himself down on the newly covered couch, let his head sink down on one of those soft pillows, and tried to think.

  He took out the letter and read it over again.

  When he read the sentences about praying for him, a choking sensation came in his throat such as he hadn’t felt since he nearly drowned and realized he had no mother to go to anymore. This girl wrote as a mother might talk, if one had a mother.

  He folded the letter and slipped it back in his pocket. Then, closing and locking the door, he sat down at the organ and tried to play it.

  Since he knew nothing whatever about music, he didn’t succeed very well. He turned from it with a sigh to look up at those pictured eyes once more and find them following his every movement. Some pictures have that power of seeming to follow one around the room.

  Christie got up and walked away, still looking at the picture, and turned and came back again. The eyes still seemed to remain upon his face with that strong, compelling gaze. He wondered what it meant, and yet he was glad it had come. It seemed like a new friend.

  Finally he sat down and faced the question that was troubling him. He must write a letter to that girl—to those girls—and he might as well have done with it at once and get it out of the way. After that he could feel he paid the required amount and could enjoy his things. It simply wasn’t decent not to acknowledge their receipt. But the tug-of-war was how to do it.

  Should he confess that he was a young man and not the Christie they thought, and offer to send back the things for them to confer upon a more worthy subject?

  He glanced around on his new belongings with sudden dismay. Could he give up all this? No. He would not.

  His eyes caught the pictured eyes once more. He’d found a friend and a little comfort. It had come to him unbidden. He would not bid it depart.

  Besides, it would only make those kind people uncomfortable. They would think they’d done something dreadful to send a young man presents, especially one they’d never seen. He knew the ways of the world a little. And that Hazel Winship who wrote the letter—she was a charming person. He wouldn’t like to spoil her dream of his being a friendless girl. Let her keep her ideas; they could do no harm.

  He would write and thank her as if he were the girl they supposed him. He was always good at playing a part or imitating anyone; he’d write the letter in a girlish hand—it wouldn’t be hard to do—and thank them as they expected to be thanked by another girl. That would be the end of it. Then when his oranges came into bearing—if they ever did—he would send them each a box of oranges anonymously, and all would be right.

  As for that miserable business Mortimer got him into, he’d fix that up by shutting up the house and riding away early Sunday morning. The children might come to Sunday school to their hearts’ content. He wouldn’t be there to be bothered or bantered.

  In something like a good humor he settled to his task.

  He wrote one or two formal notes and tore them up. As he looked around on the glories of his room, he began to feel that such thanks were inadequate to express his feelings. Then he settled to work once more and began to be interested.

  My dear unknown friend, he wrote, I scarcely know how to thank you for the kindness you have showered upon me.

  He read the sentence over and decided it sounded right and not at all as if a man wrote it. The spirit of fun took possession of him, and he made up his mind to write those girls a good long letter and tell them all about his life, only tell it just as if he were a girl. It would while away this long, unoccupied day. He wrote on:

  You wanted to know all about me, so I’m going to tell you. I don’t, as you suppose, teach school. I had a little money from the sale of Father’s farm after he died, and I put it into some land down here planted with young orange trees. I’d heard a great deal about how much money was to be made in orange growing and thought I would like to try it. I’m alone in the world—not a soul who cares in the least about me, and so there was no one to advise me against it.

  I came down here and boarded at first but found it would be a good thing for me to live among my trees so I could look after things better. So I had a little cabin built of logs right in the grove and sent for all the old furniture that was saved from the old home, which wasn’t much, as most things were sold with the house. You saw how few and poor they were.

  It seems so strange to think that you, who evidently have all the good things of the world to make you happy, should have stopped to think and take notice of poor, insignificant me. It is wonderful, more wonderful than anything that ever happened to me in all my life. I look about on my beautified room and can’t believe it is I.

  I live all alone in my log cabin, surrounded by a lot of young trees, which seem to me very slow in doing anything to make me rich. If I’d known all I know now, I never would have come here. But one has to learn by experience, and I’ll just have to stick now until something comes of it.

  I’m not exactly a girl just like you as you say, for I’m twenty-eight years old, and judging by your pictures, not one of you is as old as that. You’re none of you over twenty-two, if you’re that.

  Besides, you’re all beautiful girls, while I most certainly am not. To begin with, my hair is red, and I’m brown and freckled from the sun and wind and
rain. In fact, I’m what is called homely. So, you see, it isn’t as serious a matter for me to live all alone down here in an orange grove as it would be for one of you. I have a strong pony who carries me on his back or in my old buckboard around the grove, I hire to have done, of course. I also have a few chickens and a dog.

  If you could have seen my little house the night your boxes arrived and were unpacked, you’d appreciate the difference the things you sent make in my surroundings. But you can never know what a difference they will make in my life.

  Here the rapid pen halted, and the writer wondered whether that might be a prophecy. So far, he reflected, he had written nothing that wasn’t strictly true, and yet he hadn’t revealed his identity.

  This last sentence seemed to be writing itself, for he had no idea that the change in his room would make much difference in his life, except to add a little comfort. He raised his eyes; as they met those in the picture, it seemed to be impressed upon him that there was to be a difference, and somehow he wasn’t sorry. The old life wasn’t attractive, but he wondered what it would become. He felt as if he were standing off watching the developments in his own life as one might watch the life of the hero in a story.

  There was one more theme in Hazel Winship’s letter that he didn’t touch upon, he found, after he went over each article by name and said nice things about them all and what a lot of comfort he would have from them.

  He was especially pleased with his sentence about the slippers and lace collars.

  They are much too fine and pretty to be worn, especially by such a large, awkward person as I am. But I think they would look nice on some of the girls who sent them to me.

  But all the time he was reading his letter over he felt that something would have to be said on that other subject. At last he started it again:

  There’s a cabin down the road a little way, and this morning a friend of mine came in and played a while on the organ—I can’t play myself, but I’m going to learn (he hadn’t thought about learning before, but now he knew he should) and we all got to singing out of the books you sent. Eventually I looked up and saw the doorway full of little children listening for all they were worth. I presume I can give a good deal of pleasure listening to that organ sometimes, though I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much of a hand at starting a Sunday school (that sentence sounded rather mannish for a girl of twenty-eight; but he had to let it stand, as he could think of nothing better to say) as I never knew much about such things. Though I’m obliged for your praying, I’m sure. It will give me a pleasant feeling at night when I’m alone to know someone in the world is thinking about me, and I’m sure if prayers can do any good yours ought to.

  But about the Sunday school—I don’t want to disappoint you after you’ve been so kind to send all the papers and books. Maybe I could give the children some of the papers and let them study the lessons out for themselves. I used to be quite a hand at drawing. I might practice up and draw them some pictures to amuse them sometime when they come around again. I’ll do my best.

  I like to think of you all at college having a good time. My school days were the best of my life. I wish I could live them again. I have a lot of books. But when I come in tired at night, it seems so lonely here, and I’m so tired I just go to sleep. It doesn’t seem to make much difference about my reading anymore, anyway. The oranges won’t know it. They grow just as soon for me as if I kept up with the procession.

  I appreciate your kindness, though I don’t know how to tell you how deeply it touched me. I’ve picked out the one in the middle, the girl with the laughing eyes and the loveliest expression I ever saw on any face to be Miss Hazel Winship, the one who thought of this whole beautiful plan. Am I right? I’ll study the others up later.

  Yours very truly—

  Here he paused and, carefully erasing the last word, wrote: lovingly, Christie W. Bailey.

  He sat back and covered his face with his hands. A strange, warm feeling came over him while he was writing those things about Hazel Winship. He wondered what it was. He actually enjoyed saying those things to her and knowing she’d be pleased to read them and not think him impertinent.

  He wrote a good many promises, after all. What led him to that? Did he mean to keep them? Yes, he believed he did. Only those fellows, Armstrong and Mortimer, shouldn’t know anything about it. He would carry out his plan of going away Sundays until those ridiculous fellows forgot their nonsense. And, so thinking, he folded and addressed his letter.

  A little more than a week later, six girls gathered in a cozy college room—Hazel’s—to hear the letter read.

  “You see,” said Hazel, with a triumphant light in her eyes, “I was right. She’s a girl like us. It doesn’t matter in the least bit that she’s twenty-eight. That isn’t old. And for once I’m glad you see that my impulses are not always crazy. I’m going to send this letter home at once to Father and Mother. They were really quite troublesome about this. They thought it was the wildest thing I ever did, and I’ve been hearing about it all vacation. Now, listen!”

  And Hazel read the letter amid many interruptions.

  “I’ll tell you what it is, girls,” she said, as she finished the letter. “We must keep track of her now we’ve found her. I’m so glad we did it. She isn’t a Christian, that’s evident. And we must try to help her and work through her a Sunday school. That would be worthwhile. Then maybe sometime we can have her up here for a winter and give her a change. Wouldn’t she enjoy it? It can’t be this winter, because we’ll have to work so hard here in college we’d have no time for anything else. But after we’ve all graduated, wouldn’t it be nice? I’ll tell you what I’d like to do. I’d like the pleasure of taking Christie Bailey to Europe. I know she’d enjoy it. Just think what fun it would be to watch her eyes shine over new things. I don’t mind her red hair one bit. Red-haired people are lovely if they know how to dress to harmonize with their complexions.”

  “How fortunate we used green for that couch cover! Christie’s hair will be lovely against it,” murmured Victoria, in a seriocomic tone, while all the girls set up a shout at Hazel’s wild flights of imagination.

  “Take Christie Bailey to Europe! Oh, Hazel! I’m afraid you’ll be simply dreadful, now that you’ve succeeded in one wild scheme. You’ll make us do all sorts of things and never stop at reason.”

  Hazel’s cheeks flushed. It always hurt her a little that these girls didn’t go quite as far in her philanthropic ideas as she did. She’d taken this Christie girl into her heart, and she wanted them all to do the same.

  “Well, girls, you must all write to her, anyway, and encourage her. Think what it would be like to be down there, a girl, all alone, and raising oranges. I think she’s a hero!”

  “Oh, we’ll write, of course,” said Victoria, with mischief in her eyes. “But call her a heroine, do, Hazel.”

  And they all wrote—letters full of nonsense and sweet, tender, chatty letters and letters full of girlish pity, attempts to make life more bearable to the poor girl all alone down in Florida. But a girl who confesses to being homely and red-haired and twenty-eight cannot hold for long a prominent place in the life of any but an enthusiast such as Hazel. Very soon the other five letters dropped off, and Christie Bailey was favored with only one correspondent from that Northern college.

  But to return to Florida. That first Sunday morning after Christmas, everything didn’t go just as Christie planned.

  In the first place, he overslept. He had discovered some miserable scales on some of his most cherished trees. He had to trudge to town Saturday morning—a worker was using the pony ploughing—and get some whale-oil soap and then spend the rest of the day until dark spraying his trees. It was no wonder he was too tired to wake up early the next day.

  Then, when he finally went out to the pony, he discovered that he was suffering from a badly cut foot, probably the result of the careless hired man and a barbed-wire fence. The swollen foot needed attention.

  Once the pon
y was made comfortable, he reflected on what he would do next. To ride on that pony anywhere was impossible. To walk he wasn’t inclined. The sun was warm for that time of year, and he still felt stiff from his exertions the day before. He concluded he would shut up the house, lie down, and keep still when anyone came to call, and they would think him gone.

  With this purpose in view, he gave the pony and the chickens a liberal supply of food, so he needn’t come out again until evening, and went into the house. But he had no sooner reached there when he heard a loud knocking at the front door, evidently with the butt end of a whip. Before he could decide what to do, it was thrown open, and Mortimer and Armstrong entered, with another young Englishman following close behind. Armstrong wore shiny patent-leather shoes and seemed anxious to make them apparent.

  “Good morning, Miss Bailey,” he said affably. “Glad to see you looking so fresh and sweet. We just called round to help you prepare for your little Sunday school.”

  Chapter 5

  A Sunday School in Spite of Itself

  Christie was angry. He stood still, looking from one to another of his three guests like a wild animal at bay. They knew he was angry, and that fact contributed not a little to their enjoyment. They meant to carry out the joke to the end.

  The third man, Rushforth by name, stood grinning behind the other two. The joke was so thoroughly explained to him that he fully appreciated it. He was noted for being quick at a joke. Armstong, however, seemed to have a complete sense of the ridiculous.

  Firmly and cheerfully they had their way. Christie, knowing resistance was futile, sat down on his couch in glum silence and let them do as they wished.

  “I stopped on the way over and reminded our friends in the cabin below that the hour was two thirty,” remarked Mortimer. He pulled a large dinner bell from his side pocket and rang a note or two. “That’s to let them know when we’re ready to start.”