The Story of a Whim Read online

  The choir hastily found it and began.

  As the Sunday school rose to depart and shuffled out with many a scrape and bow and admiring glance backward at the glowing chalkboard, Christie felt a hand touch his arm. Glancing down, he saw a small girl with great, dark eyes set in black fringes gazing up at the picture above the organ, her little hand on his sleeve.

  “Is dat man you all’s fathah?” she asked him, timidly.

  A great wave of color stole up into Christie’s face.

  “No,” he answered. “That is a picture of Jesus when He grew up to be a man.”

  “Oh!” gasped the little girl in admiration. “Did you draw dat? Did you all evah see Jesus?”

  The color deepened.

  “No, I didn’t draw that picture,” said Christie. “It was sent as a present to me.”

  “Oh,” said the child, disappointed. “I thought you’d maybe seed Him sometime. But He look like you, He do. I thought He was you all’s fathah.”

  The little girl turned away, but her words lingered in Christie’s heart. His Father! How that stirred some memory! His Father in heaven! Had he perhaps spoken wrong when he claimed no relationship with Jesus, the Christ?

  Chapter 6

  “My Father!”

  The three young men who came to play a practical joke stayed to clear up. Gravely and courteously they went about the work, piled the hymnbooks neatly on top of the organ, and placed the boards and boxes under the house for further use if needed. The entire Sunday school had declared, upon leaving the house with a bow and a smile, “I’ll come again next Sunday, Mistah Christie. I’ll come every Sunday.” And Christie hadn’t told them not to.

  The young men bid good evening to their host, not once calling him “Miss Christie,” voted the afternoon a genuine success and were actually gone.

  Christie sank to the couch and looked into the eyes looking down upon him.

  He was tired. Oh, he was more tired than he’d ever been in his life! He was so tired he’d like to cry. And the pictured eyes seemed yearning to comfort him.

  He thought of the words of the little black girl. “Is dat man you all’s fathah?”

  “My Father!” he said aloud. “My Father!” The words echoed with a pleasant ring in the silent, lonely room. He didn’t know why he said it, but he repeated it again.

  And if the traditions of his childhood had been filled with the Bible, a host of verses would have flocked around him. But since his mind hadn’t been filled with holy things, he had to learn it all, and his ideas of the Man, Christ Jesus, were vague and crude. Perhaps, as to the children of old, God was speaking directly to his heart.

  Christie lay still and thought. Went over his useless life and hated it; went over the past week with its surprises, and then over the strange afternoon. His own conduct surprised him the most, after all. Now why, just why, did he throw that case of liquor out the door, and why did he go ahead with that Sunday school? A mysterious power was at work within him. Was the secret the presence of the Man of the picture?

  The sun dropped over the rim of the flat, low horizon and left the pines looming dark against a starry sky. All the earth went dark with night. And Christie lay there in the quiet darkness, yet not alone. He kept thinking over what the little girl had said to him, and once again he said it out loud in the hush of the room, “My Father!”

  But, as the darkness grew deeper, a luminous halo seemed to be up where he knew the picture hung, and while he rested there with closed eyes, he felt that Presence growing brighter. Those kind eyes were looking down upon him out of the dark of the room.

  This time he called, “My Father!” with recognition in his voice, and out from the shadows of his life the Christ stepped nearer until He stood beside the couch. Stooping, He blessed him, breathed His love upon him, while he looked up in wonder and joy. And perhaps because he was not familiar with the words of Christ, the young man couldn’t recall in what form those precious words of blessing fell on his ear during the dream, or trance, or whatever it might be, that came upon him.

  When the morning broke around him, Christie, waking, sat up and remembered and decided it must have been a dream induced by the unusual excitement of the day before. Yet a wondrous joy lingered with him for which he could not account.

  Again and again he looked at the picture reverently and said under his breath, “My Father.”

  He wondered whether he was growing daft. Perhaps his long loneliness was enfeebling his mind so that he was susceptible to what he always considered superstition. Nevertheless, it gave him joy, and he finally decided to humor himself in this notion. This was the permission of his old self toward the new self that was being born within him.

  He went about his work singing.

  “He holds the key of all unknown,

  And I am glad—”

  “Well, I am glad!” he announced out loud, as if someone had disputed the fact he’d just stated. “About the safest person to hold the key, after all, I guess.” And even as a maiden might steal a glance to the eyes of her lover, so the soul in him glanced up to the eyes of the picture.

  The dog and the pony rejoiced as they heard their master’s cheery whistle, and Christie felt happier that day than he had since he was a little boy.

  Toward night he grew quieter. He was developing a scheme. It would be rather interesting to write out an account of the Sunday school, not, of course, the part the fellows had in it, for that mustn’t be known, but just the pleasant part, about Uncle Moses and Aunt Tildy. He would write it to Hazel Winship—not that he’d ever send it, but it would be pleasant to pretend he was writing her another letter. He hadn’t enjoyed anything for a long time as much as he enjoyed writing that letter to her the other day.

  Perhaps after a long time, if she ever answered his letter—and here he suddenly realized he was cherishing a faint hope in his heart that she would answer it—he might revise this letter and send it to her. It would please her to know he was trying to do his best with a Sunday school for her, and she would likely appreciate some of the things that had happened. He would do it this very evening.

  He hurried through his day’s work with zest. He had something to look forward to in the evening. It was foolish, perhaps, but surely no more foolish than his amusements the last four years had been. It was innocent, at least, and could do no one any harm.

  Then, as he sat down to write, he glanced instinctively to the picture. It still wove its spell of the eyes around him, and he hadn’t lost the feeling that Christ had come to him, though he’d never made the slightest attempt or desired to come to Christ. And under the new influence, he wrote his thoughts, as one might wing a prayer, scarce believing it would ever reach a listening ear, yet taking comfort in the sending. And so he wrote:

  My dear new friend:

  I didn’t expect to write to you again—at least, not so soon. It seems impossible that one so blessed with this world’s good things should have time to think twice of one like me. I don’t even know now whether I’ll ever send this when it’s written, but it will while away my lonely evening to write and give me the pleasure of a little talk with a companion I appreciate very much. And if I never send it, that will be all right.

  It’s about the Sunday school. You know I told you I could never do anything like that; I didn’t know how, and I never dreamed that I could—or would, perhaps I ought to say—more than to give the children the papers you sent and let them hear the organ sometimes. But a very strange thing has happened. A Sunday school has come to me in spite of myself.

  The friend who was playing the organ this Christmas morning, when the black children stood at the door listening, as a joke invited them to a Sunday school, and they came. I was vexed because I didn’t know what to do with them. Then, too, the friend came, bringing two others, and they all thought it was a huge joke. I saw they were going to act out a farce. While I never had much conscience about these things before, I sensed that it wouldn’t be what you would like. Then,
too, that wonderful picture you sent disturbed me. I didn’t like to laugh at religion with that picture looking on.

  You may perhaps wonder at me. I don’t understand myself, but that picture has had a strange effect on me. It helped me do a lot of things Sunday that I didn’t want to do. It helped me take charge and do something to get that Sunday school to go right. I didn’t know how in the least. Of course I’ve been to Sunday school; I didn’t mean that. But I never took much notice of things and how they were done. And I wasn’t one to do it, anyway. I felt unfit, and even more because my friends were here, and I knew they were making fun. I had them sing a lot, and then I asked old Uncle Moses to help us out. I wish I could show you Uncle Moses.

  Here the writer paused and seemed to debate a point for a moment, and then he wrote: I’ll try to sketch him roughly.

  There followed a spirited sketch of Uncle Moses with both hands crossed on top of his heavy cane, his benign chin leaning forward with interest. One could fairly see how yellow with age were his whitened locks, how green with age his ancient coat. Christie had his talents, though there were few outlets for them.

  It is of interest to note here that, when this letter reached the Northern college, as it did one day, those six girls gathered together and laughed and cried over the pictures. Finally, after due counsel, Christie Bailey was offered a full course in a famous women’s college of art. This he smiled over and quietly declined, saying he was much too old to begin anything like that, which required that one should begin at childhood to accomplish anything by it. This the girls sighed over and argued over, but finally gave up, as they found Christie wouldn’t.

  But to return to the letter. Christie gave a full account of the prayer, which had touched his own heart deeply. Then he described and sketched Aunt Tildy with her spectacles. He had a secret longing to put in Armstrong with his glasses and the incident of his interruption with the Bible reading. But, since that would reflect somewhat upon his character as an elderly maiden, to be found consorting with three such young men, he restrained himself. But he put an extra vigor into the front row of little black heads, bobbing this way and that, singing with might and main.

  I knew they ought to have a lesson next, but I didn’t know how to teach it any better than I know how to make an orange tree bear in a hurry. I determined to do my best, however. I happened to remember something said in what was read about a star; so I made one and told them each to think of something they heard in that lesson that they wanted me to draw. That worked first-rate. They tried nearly everything in the encyclopedia, and I did my best at each till the whole big chalkboard was full. I wish you could see it. It looks like a Noah’s ark hanging up there on the wall now, for I haven’t cleaned it off yet. I keep it there to remind me that I really did teach a Sunday school class once.

  When they went away, they all said they were coming again, and I don’t doubt they’ll do it. I’m sure I don’t know what to do with them if they do, for I’ve drawn all there is to draw. As for teaching them anything, they can teach me more in a minute than I could teach them in a century. Why, one little child looked up at me with her big, round, soft eyes, so wistful and pretty, and asked me if that picture on the wall was my father.

  I wish I knew more about that picture. I know it must be meant for Jesus Christ. I’m not quite so ignorant of all religion as not to see that. There is the halo with the shadow of the cross above His head. And when the sun has almost set, it touches there, and the halo seems to glow and glow almost with phosphorescent light until the sun is gone and leaves us all in darkness. Then I imagine I can see it still glow out between the three arms of the cross.

  And now I don’t know why I’m writing this. I didn’t mean to when I began, but I feel as if I must tell about the strange experience I had last night.

  And then Christie told his dream. Told it until someone reading could only feel as he felt, see the vision with him, yearn for the blessing, and be glad and wonder always after.

  Tell me what it means, he wrote.

  It seems as if there was something in this presence for me. I can’t believe it’s all imagination, for it would leave me when day comes. It has set me longing for something, but I don’t know what. I never longed before, except for my oranges to bring me money. When I wanted something I couldn’t have, before this, I went and did something I knew I shouldn’t, just for the pleasure of doing wrong, a sort of defiant pleasure. Now I feel as if I want to do right, to be good, like a little child coming to its father. I feel as if I want to ask you, as that little soul asked me yesterday, “Is dat man you all’s fathah?”

  Christie folded his letter and flung it down on the table with his head upon his hands. With the writing of that experience his strength left him. He felt abashed in its presence. He seemed to have avowed something, to have made a declaration of desire and intention for which he was hardly ready yet, and still he didn’t want to go back. He was like a man groping in the dark, not knowing where he was, or whether there was light, or whether indeed he wanted the light if there was any to be had.

  But before he retired that night, he dropped on his knees beside his couch, with bowed and reverent head. After waiting silently awhile, he said out loud, “My Father!” as if he were testing a call. He repeated it again, more eagerly, and a third time, with a ring in his voice, “My Father!”

  That was all. He didn’t know how to pray. His soul had grown no further than just to know how to call to his Father, but it was enough. A kind of peace settled down on him, a feeling that he was heard.

  Once more he sensed that he was acting out of all reason, and he wondered whether he could be losing his mind. He, a red-haired, hard-featured orange grower, who only yesterday carried curses so easily upon his lips, and might again tomorrow, to be allowing his emotions thus to carry him away! It was simply childish!

  But so deep was the feeling that a Friend was near, that he might really say, “My Father,” if only to the dark, that he determined to keep up the hallucination, if indeed it was hallucination, as long as it would last. So he fell asleep again to dream of benediction.

  The next day a sudden desire took him to mail that letter he wrote the night before. What harm, since he would never see the girl and since she thought him a poor, forlorn creature—this letter might prove him half daft. But even so, she might write him again, which he found he wanted very much when he thought about it. So without giving himself a chance to repent by rereading it, he drove the limping pony to town and mailed it.

  Now, as the middle of the week approached, a conviction seized superintendent Christie Bailey that another Sunday was about to dawn and another time of trial would perhaps be his. He virtually bound himself to that Sunday school by the mailing of that foolish letter. He could have run away if not for that, and those girls up North would never have bothered their heads anymore about their old Sunday school. What if Mortimer should bring the fellows over from the lake? What if! His blood froze in his veins.

  Chapter 7

  “I Love You”

  After his supper that night, he doggedly seized the lesson leaflet and began to study. He read the whole thing through, hints and elucidations and illustrations and all, and then began again.

  At last it struck him that the hints for the infant class would about suit his needs, and without further ado he set himself to master them. Before long he was as interested as a child in his plans, and the next evening was spent in cutting out paper crosses as suggested in the lesson, one for every scholar he expected to be present, and lettering them with the golden text.

  He spent another evening still in making an elaborate picture on the reverse side of the chalkboard, to be used at the close of his lesson after he led up to it by more simple work on the other side.

  He even went so far as to take the hymnbook, select the hymns, and write out a regular program. No one should catch him napping this time. Neither should the prayer be forgotten. Uncle Moses would be there, and they could trust him t
o pray.

  Christie was a little anxious about his music, for upon that he depended principally for success. He felt surprised over himself that he so much wished to succeed, when a week ago he hadn’t cared. What would he do, though, if Mortimer didn’t turn up or, worse still, if he’d planned more mischief?

  But the three friends appeared promptly on the hour, dignity on their faces and helpfulness in the atmosphere that surrounded them. They had no more practical jokes to play. They had recognized that for some hidden reason Christie meant to play this thing out in earnest, and their liking and respect for him were such that they wanted to assist in the same spirit.

  They liked him none the less for his prompt handling of the case of liquors. They carried a code of honor in that colony that respected moral courage when they saw it. Besides, everybody liked Christie.

  They listened closely to Christie’s lesson, even with interest. They took their little prayer crosses, studied them curiously, and folded them away in their breast pockets—Armstrong had passed them around, being careful to reserve three for himself, Mortimer, and Rushforth—and they sang with a right good will.

  And when the time came to leave, they shook hands with Christie like the rest and, without the least mocking in their voices, said they had a pleasant time and would come again. Then each man took a box and a board and stowed them away as he passed out of the room.

  And thus Christie was set up above the rest to a position of honor and respect. This work he had taken up—that they partly forced him to take up—separated him from them somewhat. Perhaps it was this fact that Christie had to thank afterward for his freedom from temptation during those first few weeks of his acquaintance with his heavenly Father.

  For how could he have grown into the life of Christ if he had constantly met and drunk liquor with these companions?

  The new life could not have grown with the old.