The Story of a Whim

by Grace Livingston Hill

  Christie scowled, and the others laughed uproariously.

  “Now, Armstrong, you and I will go out and reconnoiter for seats, while Rushforth stays here and helps this dear girl dust her parlor ornaments and brickbats. We’ll need plenty of seats, for we’ll have quite a congregation if everyone I’ve asked turns out.”

  They came back in a few minutes laden with boxes and boards, which they arranged in three rows across the end of the cabin facing the organ.

  Christie sat and glared at them.

  He was very angry and was trying to think whether to bear it out and see what they would do next or run away to the woods. He had little doubt that if he attempted the latter they would all three follow him and perhaps bind him to a seat to witness the performances they’d planned. They were evidently taking it out on him for having all this luxury and not taking them into the innermost confidences of his heart about it.

  He clenched his teeth and wondered what Hazel would say if she knew how outrageously her idea of a Sunday school was going to be burlesqued.

  Armstrong tacked up the chalkboard and got out the chalk. Then, discovering the folded cloth map of the Holy Land, he tacked that up at the end wall where all could see it. Mortimer mapped out the program.

  “Now, Rushforth, you pass the books and the lesson leaflets, and I’ll stay at the organ and preside. Miss Christie’s a little shy about speaking out today, you see, and we’ll have to help her along before we put her in the superintendent’s place. Christie, you can make some pictures on the chalkboard. Anything’ll do. This is near Christmas—you can make Santa Claus coming down the chimney if you like. I’ll run the music, and we’ll have quite a time of it. We can tell the fellows all about it down at the lake next week, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we have a delegation from Mulberry Creek next Sunday to hear Elder Bailey speak—I beg pardon; I mean Miss Bailey. You must excuse me, dear; on account of your freckles I sometimes take you for a man.”

  Mortimer spread open a Bible that came with the songbooks and actually found the place in the lesson leaflet. He made them listen while he read and declared that Christie ought to give a talk on the lesson. Thus they carried on their banter the whole morning long.

  Christie sat glowering in the corner.

  He couldn’t make up his mind what to do. For some strange reason, he didn’t want a Sunday school caricatured in his house, especially with that picture looking down upon it all, and yet he didn’t know why he didn’t want it. He was never squeamish before about such things. The fellows wouldn’t understand it, and he didn’t understand it himself. But it went against the grain.

  Now as lunchtime approached, he thought they might go if he offered no refreshments. But, no, they had no such idea. Instead, they sent Armstrong outside to the light wagon they’d tied at the tree by the roadside, and he came back laden with a large basket, which they unpacked.

  The basket contained canned meats and jellies and pickles and baked beans and all sorts of canned goods that had to be substituted for the genuine article in Florida, where fresh meat and vegetables were not always to be had.

  Armstrong went out again and this time came back with a large case of bottles.

  He set it down with a thump on the floor just opposite the picture, while he shut the door. The clink of bottles signified a hilarious hour and carried memories of many times of feasting in which Christie had participated before.

  His face crimsoned as if some honored friend had been brought to look upon the worst of his hard, careless life. He suddenly rose with determination. Here was something he couldn’t stand.

  He drank sometimes, it’s true. The fellows knew it. But both he and they knew that the worst things they ever did in their lives were done and said under the influence of liquor. They all had memories of wild debauches of several days’ duration, when they had gone off together and not restrained themselves. Each one knew his own heart’s shame after such a spree as this. Each knew the other’s shame. They never spoke about it; but it was one of the bonds that tied them together, these drunken riots of theirs, when they put their senses at the service of cards and wine and never stopped until the liquor gave out. At such times each knew he would have sold his soul for one more penny to stake at the game, or one more drink, had the devil been around in human form to bid for it.

  Not one of them was a drunkard, and few even constant drinkers, partly because they had little money to spend in such a habit. They all had strong bodies able to endure much, and their life out-of-doors didn’t create unnatural cravings of appetite. Rather, they forced themselves into these revelries to amuse themselves in a land where there was little but work to fill up the long months and years of waiting.

  This case of liquor was not the first in Christie’s cabin. He’d never felt before that it was out of place in entering there. But now the picture hung there, and the case of liquor, representing the denial of God, seemed to Christie a direct insult to the One whose presence had in a mysterious way crept into the cabin with the picture.

  Also he saw in a flash what the fellows planned. They knew his weakness. They remembered how skilled his tongue was in turning phrases when loosened by intoxicants. They planned to get him drunk—perhaps had even drugged some of the bottles slightly—and then to make him talk or even pray!

  At another time this might have seemed funny to him. He hadn’t realized before how far he’d gone in the way from truth and righteousness. But now his whole soul rose up to loathe him, his ways, and his companions.

  A sentence of his mother’s prayer for him when he was a little child that hadn’t been in his mind for years now came as clear as if a voice had spoken in his ear, “God make my little Chris a good man!”

  And this was how it was answered. Poor mother!

  What Hazel Winship would think of the scene also flashed into his mind. He strode across that room in his angry strength before his astonished companions could stop him. Taking that case of liquor in his muscular arms, he hurled it far out the open door across the road and into the woods. Then he turned back to the three amazed men.

  “You won’t have any of that stuff in here!” he said firmly. “If you’re bound to have a Sunday school, a Sunday school we’ll have. But we won’t have any drunken men at it. Perhaps you enjoy mixing things up that way, but I’m not quite a devil yet.”

  They hadn’t known he possessed such strength. He looked fairly splendid as he stood there in the might of right, his deep eyes glowing darker brown and every bright curl trembling with determination.

  “Aw! Certainly! Beg pardon!” said Armstrong, settling his eyeglasses that he might observe his former friend more closely. “I meant no harm, I’m sure.” Armstrong was always polite. If an earthquake had thrown him to the ground, he would have risen and said, “Aw! I beg pardon!”

  But Christie was master in his own house. The others exclaimed a little and tried to joke with him about his newly acquired temperance principles. But he refused to open his lips further on the subject, and they ate their canned meats and jellies and bread moistened only by water from Christie’s pump in the yard.

  They had scarcely finished when the first installment of the Sunday school arrived in faded but freshly starched calicoes laundered especially for the occasion. They pattered to the door barefooted, clean, and shining. Some of their elders followed, lingering shy and smiling at the gateway, uncertain whether to acknowledge the invitation to “Mr. Christie’s” cabin. Mr. Christie had never been so hospitable before. But the children, spying the rudely improvised benches, crept in, and the others followed.

  Christie stood scowling in the back end of the cabin. Sunday school was on his hands. He couldn’t help it anymore than he could help the coming of the organ and the picture. It was part of his new possessions.

  He felt determined that it shouldn’t be a farce. How he would prevent it he didn’t know, but he meant to do it.

  He looked up at the picture again. It seemed to give him strength. Of co
urse, it was only his imagination that it smiled approval after he flung that liquor out the door. But in spite of his own reason, he felt that the Man of the picture was enduring insult here in his house and that he must fight for His sake.

  Added to that was Hazel Winship’s faith in him and her desire for a Sunday school. His honor was at stake. He would never have gone out and gathered up a Sunday school to nurse to life, even for Hazel Winship. Neither would he have consented to help in one if his permission had been asked. But now, when it was, as it were, thrust upon him, like a little foundling child all smiling and innocent of possible danger to it, what could he do but help it out?

  They were all seated now, and a hush of expectancy pervaded the room.

  The three conspirators over by the organ were consulting and laughing in low tones.

  Christie knew that the time had come for action. He raised his eyes to the picture once more. To his imagination, the eyes seemed to smile assurance to him as he went forward to the organ.

  Christie quietly picked up a songbook and, opening at random, said, “Let’s sing number 134.” When they began to sing, he was surprised to find it was the same song Mortimer had sung first on Christmas morning.

  His friends turned in astonishment toward him. They began to think he was entering into the joke like his old self, but instead on his face was a serious look they’d never seen there before.

  Mortimer put his fingers on the keys and began at once. Christie had taken the play out of their hands and turned the tables on them. They wondered what he’d do next. This was fine acting on his part, they felt, for him to take the predicament they put him in and work it out in earnest.

  The song was almost finished, and still Christie didn’t know what to do next.

  He announced another hymn at random and watched old Aunt Tildy settle her steel-bowed spectacles over her nose and fumble among the numbers. The Sunday school was entering into the music with zest. The male trio who led was singing with might and main, but with an amused smile on their faces as if they expected developments soon.

  Just then, an aged black man came hobbling in. His hair and whiskers were white, and his worn Prince Albert coat didn’t fit his bent figure; but there was a clerical manner that clung to the old coat and gave Christie hope. When the song was finished, he raised his eyes without any hesitation and spoke clearly.

  “Uncle Moses,” he said, “we want to begin right, and you know all about Sunday schools. Can’t you give us a start?”

  Uncle Moses slowly took off his spectacles and put them carefully away in his pocket while he cleared his throat.

  “I ain’t much on speechifyin’, Mistah Bailey,” he said, “but I kin pray, ’cause you see when I’s talkin’ to God den I ain’t thinkin’ of my own sinful, stumblin’ speech.”

  The choir didn’t attempt to restrain their chuckles, but Christie was all seriousness.

  “That’s it, Uncle. That’s what we need. You pray.” He wondered for an instant whether Hazel Winship was praying for her Sunday school then, too.

  All during the prayer, Christie marveled at himself. He conducting a religious service in his own house and asking somebody to pray! And yet, as the trembling sentences rolled out, he felt glad that homage was being rendered to the Presence that seemed to have been in the room ever since the picture came.

  “Oh, our Father in heaven, we is all poh sinnahs!” said Uncle Moses earnestly. And Christie felt it was true, himself among the number. It was the first prayer the young man ever remembered feeling all the way through. “We is all sick and miserable with the disease of sin. We’s got it bad, Lord”—here Christie felt the seat behind him shake. Mortimer was behaving very badly. “But, Lord,” went on the quavering old voice, “we know dere’s a remedy. Away down in Palestine, in de Holy Land, was where de fust medicine shop of de world was set up, an’ we been gettin’ de good ob it eber sence. Oh, Lord, we praise Thee today for de little chile dat lay in dat manger a long time ago, dat brung de fust chance of healing to us poh sinners—”

  Mortimer could scarcely contain himself, and the two Englishmen were laughing on general principles. Christie raised his bowed head and gave Mortimer a warning shove, and they subsided somewhat. But the remarkable prayer went on to its close, and to Christie it seemed to speak a new gospel, familiar, and yet never comprehended before. Could it be that these poor, uneducated people were to teach him a new way?

  By the time the prayer was over, he’d lost his trepidation. The spirit of it put a determination into him to make this gathering a success, not merely for the sake of foiling his tormentors, but for the sake of the trusting children who had come there in good faith.

  He felt an exultant thrill as he thought of Hazel Winship and her commission. He would try to do his best for her sake today at least, whatever came of it in future. Neither should those idiots behind him have a grand tale of his breaking down in embarrassment to take to the fellows over at the lake.

  Summoning all his daring, he called out another hymn, which happened fortunately to be familiar to the audience and to have many verses. And he reached for a lesson leaflet.

  Oh, if his curiosity had only led him to examine the lesson for today, or any lesson, in fact! He must say something to carry things off, and he must have a moment to consider. The words swam before his eyes. He could make nothing out of it all.

  Did he dare ask one of the fellows to read the scripture lesson while he prepared his next line of action?

  He looked at them. They were an uncertain quantity, but he must have time to think a minute. Armstrong was the safest. His politeness would hold him within bounds.

  When the song finished, he handed the leaflet to Armstrong, saying briefly, “You read the verses, Armstrong.”

  Armstrong, in surprise, answered, “Aw, certainly.” Adjusting his eyeglasses, he began, “Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem—”

  “Hallelujah!” interjected Uncle Moses, with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. He was so happy to be in a meeting again.

  “Aw! I beg pardon, sir! What did you say?” said Armstrong, looking up innocently.

  This came near to breaking up the meeting, at least one portion of it. But Christie, with a gleam of determination in his eyes because he’d caught a thread of a thought, said gruffly: “Go on, Armstrong. Don’t mind Uncle Moses.”

  When the reading was over, Christie, annoyed by the actions of his supposed helpers, seized a riding whip from the corner of the room and came forward to where the map of Palestine hung. As he passed his three friends, he gave them such a glare that they instinctively crouched away from the whip, wondering whether he were going to inflict instant punishment upon them. But Christie was only bent on teaching the lesson.

  “This is a map,” he said. “How many of you have ever seen a map of Florida?”

  Several children raised their hands.

  “Well, this isn’t a map of Florida. It’s a map of Palestine, that place Uncle Moses spoke about when he prayed. And Bethlehem is on it somewhere. See if you can find it anywhere. Because that’s the place told about in the verses that were just read.”

  Rushforth suddenly roused to help. He recognized Bethlehem, and at the risk of a cut with the whip from the angry Sunday school superintendent, he stepped forward and put his finger on Bethlehem.

  Christie’s face cleared. He felt that the waters were not quite so deep, after all. With Bethlehem in sight and Aunt Tildy putting on her spectacles, he felt he had his audience. He turned to the chalkboard.

  “Now,” he said, picking up a piece of yellow chalk, “I’m going to draw a star. That was one of the first Christmas things that happened about that time. While I’m drawing it, I want you to think of some of the other things the lesson tells about. And if I can, I’ll draw them.”

  The little heads bobbed eagerly this side and that to see the wonder of a star appear on the smooth surface with those few quick strokes.

  “I reckon you bettah put a rainbow u
p ‘bove de stah, fer a promise,” put in old Uncle Moses, “’cause de scripture say somewhere, ‘Where is de promise of His comin’?’ An’ de rainbow is His promise in de heavens.”

  “All right,” said Christie, breathing more freely, though he didn’t quite see the connection. And soon a rainbow arch glowed at the top over the star. Then desire grew to see this and that thing drawn, and the scholars, interested beyond their leader’s wildest expectations, called out: “Manger! Wise men! King!”

  Christie stopped at nothing from a sheep to an angel. He made some attempt to draw everything they asked for.

  And his audience didn’t laugh. They were hushed into silence. Part of them were held in thrall by overwhelming admiration for his genius, and the other part by sheer astonishment. The young men, his companions, looked at Christie with a new respect; they gazed from him to a shakily drawn cow, which was intended to represent the oxen that usually fed from the Bethlehem manger, and wondered. A new Christie Bailey was before them, and they didn’t know what to make of him.

  For Christie was getting interested in his work. The board was almost full, and the perspiration stood out on his brow and made little damp, dark rings of the curls around his forehead.

  “There’s room for one more thing. What shall it be, Uncle Moses?” he said as he paused. His face was eager, and his voice was interested.

  “Better write a cross down, sah,’cause dat’s de reason for dat baby’s comin’ into dis world. He came to die to save us all.”

  “Amen!” said Aunt Tildy, wiping her eyes and settling her spectacles for the last picture.

  Christie turned with relief back to his almost finished task. A cross was an easy thing to make.

  He built it of stone, massive and strong. And as its arm grew, stretched out to save, something of its grandeur and purpose entered his mind and stayed.

  “Now let’s sing ‘Rock of Ages,’” said Uncle Moses, closing his eyes in a happy smile.