The Story of a Whim Read online

  She led him out by another hall than the one the family would come up by. She was in such a hurry to get him away without being seen that she scarcely said a word to him. But he didn’t know it.

  “Well, is it all right?” she laughed nervously as they reached the side doorway.

  “It is all right,” he said with a joyous ring in his voice.

  Through the hall, out the door, and down the steps Christie Bailey went, his hat in his hand, his face exalted, the moonlight “laying on his head a kingly crown.” He felt that he had been crowned that night, crowned with a woman’s love.

  He looks as if he’d seen a vision, thought Victoria as she sped back to “view the ruins,” as she expressed it to herself.

  But Christie went on, his hat in his hand, down the long white road, looking up to the stars among the pines, wondering at the greatness of the world and the graciousness of God, on to his little cabin no longer filled with loneliness. There he knelt before the pictured Christ and cried, “Oh, my Father, I thank You.”

  Quite early in the morning Hazel requested a private interview with her father.

  Now it was a well-acknowledged fact that Judge Winship was completely under his daughter’s thumb. Since the interview was a prolonged one, it was regarded as quite possible by the rest of the family party that there might be almost anything, from the endowment of a college settlement to a trip to Africa, in process. And all awaited the result with some restlessness.

  But after dinner there were no developments. Hazel seemed bright and ready to sit on the porch and be read to. Judge Winship took his umbrella and sauntered out for a walk, having declined the company of the various members of his family. Mother Winship calmed her anxieties and decided to take a nap.

  Christie went about his morning tasks joyously. Now and again his heart questioned what he had to hope for in the future, poor as he was. But he put this resolutely down. He would rejoice in knowing Hazel’s forgiveness and her love, even though it never brought him anything else other than that joy of knowing.

  In this frame of mind, he looked forward exultantly to the Sunday school hour. When the young men entered, they wondered what had come over him, and the scholars greeted their superintendent with furtive nods and smiles.

  During the opening of the Sunday school, an elderly gentleman of fine presence came in, with iron-gray hair and keen blue eyes that looked piercingly out from under black brows. Christie had been praying when he came in. Christie’s prayers were an index to his life.

  During the singing of the next hymn the superintendent walked back to the door to give a book to the stranger and, hesitating a moment, asked half shyly, “Will you say a few words to us, or pray?”

  “Go on with your regular lesson, young man. I’m not prepared to speak. I’ll pray at the close if you wish me to,” said the stranger.

  Christie returned to his place, somewhat puzzled and embarrassed by the unexpected guest.

  He lingered after all were gone, having asked that he might have a few words with Christie alone. Christie noticed that Mortimer had bowed to him in going out and that he looked back curiously once or twice.

  “My name is Winship,” said the judge brusquely. “I understand, young man, that you have told my daughter you love her.”

  The color rose softly in Christie’s temples until it flooded his whole face. But a light of love and of daring came into his eyes as he answered the unexpected challenge seriously, “I do, sir.”

  “Am I to understand, sir, by that, that you wish to marry her?”

  Christie caught his breath. Hope and pain came quickly to defy one another. He stood still, not knowing what to say. He realized his helplessness, his unfitness for the love of Hazel Winship.

  “Because,” went on the relentless judge, “in my day it was considered a very dishonorable thing to tell a young woman you loved her unless you wished to marry her. And, if you do not, I wish to know at once.”

  Christie was white now and humiliated.

  “Sir,” he said sternly, “I mean nothing dishonorable. I honor and reverence your daughter, yes, and love her, next to Jesus Christ”—and involuntarily his eyes met those of the picture on the wall—“whom she has taught me to love. But since your daughter has told you about my love, she must have also told you about the circumstances under which I told it to her. If I hadn’t been trying to clear myself from a charge of deceit in her eyes, I would never have let her know the deep love I have for her. I have nothing to offer her but my love. Judge Winship, is this the kind of home to offer your daughter? It’s all I have.”

  There was something pathetic, almost tragic, in the wave of Christie’s hand as he looked around the cabin.

  “Well, young man, it’s more comfortable than the place my daughter’s father was born in. There are worse homes than this. But perhaps you’re not aware that my daughter will have enough of her own for two.”

  Christie threw his head back, with his eyes flashing, though his voice was sad. “Sir, I will never be supported by my wife. If she comes to me, she comes to the home I can offer her. And it would have to be here, now, until I can do better.”

  “As you please, young man,” answered the judge shortly. But a grim smile was upon his lips, and his eyes twinkled as if he were pleased. “I like your spirit. From all I hear of you, you are quite worthy of her. She thinks so, anyway, which is more to the point. Have you enough to keep her from starving if she did come?”

  “Oh yes.” Christie almost laughed in his eagerness. “Do you think—oh, it cannot be—that she would come?”

  “She’ll have to settle that question,” said her father, rising. “You have my permission to talk with her about it. As far as I can judge, she seems to have a fondness for logs with the bark on them. Good afternoon, Mr. Bailey. I’m glad to have met you. You had a good Sunday school, and I respect you.”

  Christie gripped his hand until the old man almost cried out with the pain. But he bore it, smiling grimly, and went on his way.

  And Christie, left alone in his little glorified room, knelt once more and called joyously: “My Father! My Father!”

  “This is perfectly ridiculous,” said Ruth Summers, looking dismally out of the swiftly moving train window at the vanishing oaks and pines. “The wedding guests going off on the bridal tour, and the bride and bridegroom staying behind. I can’t think whatever has possessed Hazel. Married in white cashmere under a tree and not a single thing belonging to a wedding, not even a wedding breakfast—”

  “You forget the wedding march,” said Victoria, a vision of the organist’s fine head coming to her, “and the strawberries for breakfast.”

  “A wedding march on that old organ,” sneered Ruth, “with a row of children for an audience and sand for a background. Well, Hazel was original, to say the least. I hope she’ll settle down now and do as other people do.”

  “She won’t,” said Victoria positively. “She’ll keep on having a perfectly lovely time all her life. Do you remember how she once said she was going to take Christie Bailey to Europe? Well, I reminded her of it this morning. She laughed and said she hadn’t forgotten it; it was one thing she married him for. He looked down at her wonderingly and asked what was that. How he does worship her!”

  “Yes, and she’s perfectly infatuated with him. I’m sure one would have to be, to live in a shanty. I don’t believe I could love any man enough for that,” she said reflectively, studying the back of Tom Winship’s well-trimmed head in the next seat.

  “Then you’d better not get married,” said Victoria. She looked dreamily out of the window at the hurrying palmettos and added: “One might—if one loved enough.” Then she was silent, thinking of a promise that was made to her, a promise of better things, signed by a true look from a pair of handsome, courageous eyes.

  Christie and Hazel watched the train as it vanished from their sight and then turned slowly toward their home.

  “It’s a palace to me now that you are in it, my wife!�
� Christie pronounced the words with wonder and awe.

  “You dear old organ, it was you that did it all,” said Hazel, touching the keys tenderly. And turning to Christie with tears of joy standing in her eyes, she put her hands in his and said, “My husband.”

  Then as if by common consent they knelt together, hand in hand, beneath the picture of the Christ, and Christie prayed. And now his prayer began, “Our Father.”

  GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL (1865–1947) is known as the pioneer of Christian romance. Grace wrote over one hundred faith-inspired books during her lifetime. When her first husband died, leaving her with two daughters to raise, writing became a way to make a living, but she always recognized storytelling as a way to share her faith in God. She has touched countless lives through the years and continues to touch lives today. Her books feature moving stories, delightful characters, and love in its purest form.