The Story of a Whim (6 page)

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, ignorant people were to teach him a new way?

By the time the prayer was over, he had lost his trepidation. The spirit of it had 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, childlike children who had come there in good faith.

He felt a little 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 the future. Neither should those idiots behind him have a grand tale of his breaking down in embarrassment to take away to the fellows over at the lake.

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

O, if his curiosity had but led h
im 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.

Dared he 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," and adjusting his eye-glasses, 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 once more.

"Aw! I beg par
don, suh! What did you say?" said Armstrong, looking up innocently.

This came near to breaking up the meeting, at least, the white portion of it; but Christie, a gleam of determination in his eye because he had caught a little 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 instinctively they 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 that 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 that the verses that were just read tell about."

Rushforth
suddenly roused to helpfulness. He espied Bethlehem, and at the risk of a cut with the whip from the angry Sunday-school superintendent he came 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 blackboard.

"Now," said he, taking 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 black surface with those few quick strokes.

"I reckon you bettah put a rainbow up 'bove de stah, fer a promise," put in old Uncle Moses, " 'cause the 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 did not quite see the connection. And soon a rainbow arch glowed at the top over the star. Then began to grow desire 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 did not 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, and gazed gravely from him to a shackly 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 knew not what to make of him.

For Christie was getting interested in his work. The blackboard was almost full, and the perspiration was standing out on his brow and making little damp, dark rings of the curls about his forehead.

"There's just 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 of dat baby's comin' into dis world. He come to die to save us all."

"Amen!" said Aunt
Tildy, wiping her eyes and settling her spectacles for the last picture, and 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 arms grew, stretched out to save, something of its grandeur and purpose seemed to enter his mind and stay.

"Now lef’s sing 'Rock of Ages’" said Uncle Moses, closing his eyes with a happy smile, and 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 blackboard, Christie felt a hand touch his arm; and, 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 bony hand on his sleeve.

"Is dat man yoh all's fader?" 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."

"O!" gasped the little girl, in admiration, "did you done draw
dat? Did you all evah see Jesus?"

The color deepened.

"No, I did not draw that picture," said Christie; "it was sent a present to me."

"O," 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 fader."

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?

The three young men who had come to play a practical joke had stayed to clear up. Gravely and courteously they had gone about the work, had piled the hymn-books neatly on the top of the organ, and placed the boards and boxes away under the house for further use if needed, for 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 had not said them nay.

The young men had bade a quiet good evening to their host, not once calling him "Miss Christie," had 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. O, he was more tired than he had ever been in his life before! He was so tired he would 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's fader?"

"My Father!" he said aloud.
"My Father!" The words echoed with a pleasant ring in the little silent, lonely room. He did not know why he said it, but he repeated it again.

And now if the traditions of his childhood had been filled with the Bible, a host of verses would have flocked about him; but, as his mind had not been filled with holy things, he had it all to learn, and his ideas of the Man, Christ Jesus, were of the vaguest and crudest.
And perhaps, as to the children of old, God was speaking directly to his heart.

Christie lay still and thought. Went over all his useless life, and hated it; went over the past week with its surprises,
and then over the strange afternoon. His own conduct seemed to him the most surprising, after all. Now why, just why, had he thrown that case of liquor out of the door, and why had he gone ahead with that Sunday school? There was a mysterious power 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, there seemed to be a luminous halo 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 till He stood beside the couch, and, stooping, 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 was unable to recall in what form those precious words of blessing had fallen upon his ear during the dream, or trance, or whatever it might be, that had come upon him.

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

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

He began to wonder whether he was growing daft. Perhaps his long loneliness was enfeebling his mind that he was so susceptible to what he had always considered superstition; nevertheless, it gave him joy, and he finally decided to humor himself in this fancy.
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 aloud, as if someone had disputed the fact he had 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.

Towards night he grew quieter. He was revolving 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 must not be known, but just the pleasant part, about Uncle Moses and Aunt Tildy. He would write it to Hazel Winship,—not that it was likely he would even send it, but it would be pleasant work to pretend to himself he was writing her another letter. He had not 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 that 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 be likely to appreciate some of the things that had happened. He would do it; he would do it this very evening.

He hurried through his day's work with a zest. There was 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 do
wn to write, he glanced instinctively to the picture. It still wove its spell of the eyes about him, and he had not lost the feeling that Christ had come to him, though he had 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 did not expect to write to you again; at least,
not so soon; for it seems impossible that one so blessed with this world's good things should have time to care to think twice of one like me. I do not even know now whether I shall ever send this when it is written, but it will while away my lonely evening to write, and give me the pleasure of a little talk with a companion whom I much appreciate, and if I never send it, it can do no harm.

"It is about the Sund
ay school. You know I told you I could never do anything like that; I did not know how; and I never dreamed that I could—or would, perhaps I ought to say—more than to give the negroes 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 wa
s playing the organ this Christmas morning, when the black children stood at the door listening, in jest invited them to a Sunday school, and they came. I was vexed because I did not 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; and, while I never had much conscience about these things before, I seemed to know that it would not be what you would like. Then, too, that wonderful picture that you sent disturbed me. I did not like a laugh at religion with that picture looking on.

"You may perha
ps wonder at me. I do not understand myself, but that picture has had a strange effect upon me. It made me do a lot of things Sunday that I did not want to do. It made me take hold and do something to make that Sunday school go right. I didn't know how in the least. Of course I've been to Sunday school; I did not mean that; but I never took much notice of things, how they were done; and I was not one to do it, anyway. I felt my unfitness dreadfully, and all the more because those friends of mine were here, and I knew they were making fun. I made 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 be debating a point a moment, and then rapidly wrote:

"I'll try to sketch him roughly."

There followed a spirited sketch of Uncle Moses with both hands crossed atop his heavy cane, his benign chin leaning forward interestedly. 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 just here that, when this letter reached the Northern college, as it did one day, those six girls clubbed together, and laughed and cried over the pictures, and finally, after due council, Christie Bailey was offered a full course in a famous woman'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 babyhood 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, as 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 ora
nge-tree bear in a hurry. However, I determined to do my best. I happened to remember there had been something said in what was read about a star; so I made one, and told them each to think of something they had heard about in that lesson that they wanted me to draw. That worked first-rate. They tried everything, pretty near, in the encyclopedia, and I did my best at each till the whole big blackboard was full. I wish you could see it. It looks like a Noah's ark hanging up there on the wall now, for I have not 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; and, 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, for all the world like my faithful dog's 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 am 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; and then I fancy I can see it yet glow between the three arms of the cross.

"And now I do not know why I am writing this. I did not mean to do so when I began, but I feel as if I must tell of the strange experience I had last night."

And then Christie told his dream. Told it till one reading could but 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 cannot believe that it is all imagination, for it would leave me when day comes.
It has set me longing for something, I know not what. I never longed before, except for my oranges to bring me money. When I wanted something I could not have, heretofore, I went and did something I knew I ought not, just for pleasure of doing wrong, a sort of defiant pleasure. Now I feel as if I wanted to do right, to be good, like a little child coming to its father. I feel as if I wanted to ask you, as that little soul asked me yesterday, 'Do you all's know that Man?'"

Christie folded his letter, and flung it down upon the table with his head upon his hands. With the writing of that
experience the strength seemed to have gone out of 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 did not 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 upon his knees beside his couch, with bowed and reverent head, and after waiting silently awhile he said aloud, "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 did not know how to pray. His soul had grown no farther than just to know how to call to his Father, but it was enough. A kind of peace seemed to settle down upon him, a feeling that he had been heard.

Once
more there came to him a knowledge 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 but yesterday had 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.