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    The Story of a Whim
    The Story of a Whim
    The Story of a Whim
    Ebook118 pages2 hours

    The Story of a Whim

    By Grace Livingston Hill

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    About this ebook

    College girls on a holiday spy battered furniture at a train station. Hazel Winship takes pity on the owner, whom she supposes to be a woman, and sends a care package that includes an organ and a picture. But the owner is a man, living alone among his orange trees in Florida. He cannot return the gifts and finds his life changed. As a result he withstands peer pressure and gains respect for taking a difficult stand among his friends and neighbors. But he must face the consequences of deceiving the one girl to whom he owes his changed life.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBarbour Publishing
    Release dateMar 1, 2015
    ISBN9781634095075
    The Story of a Whim
    Author

    Grace Livingston Hill

    Grace Livingston Hill was an early–twentieth century novelist who wrote both under her real name and the pseudonym Marcia Macdonald. She wrote more than one hundred novels and numerous short stories. She was born in Wellsville, New York, in 1865 to Marcia Macdonald Livingston and her husband, Rev. Charles Montgomery Livingston. Hill’s writing career began as a child in the 1870s, writing short stories for her aunt’s weekly children’s publication, The Pansy. She continued writing into adulthood as a means to support her two children after her first husband died. Hill died in 1947 in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania.

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      The Story of a Whim - Grace Livingston Hill

      Author

      Chapter 1

      Five Girls, an Organ, and the Whim

      How cold it is! Let’s walk up and down the platform, girls. Why doesn’t that train come?"

      I’m going in to see if the agent knows anything about it, said the one with a determined mouth and big brown eyes.

      They waited shivering in a group until she returned, five girls just entering womanhood. They were part of a small house party, spending Thanksgiving week at the old stone house on the hill above the station, and they had come down to meet another girl who was expected on the train.

      He says the train is half an hour late, said Hazel Winship, the hostess, coming down the stone steps of the station.

      What shall we do? There isn’t time to make it worthwhile to go back to the house. Shall we go inside or walk?

      Oh, walk, by all means, said Victoria Landis. It’s so stuffy and hot in there that I feel like a turkey half roasted from the little time we stayed.

      Let’s walk up this long platform to that freight house and watch the men unload that car, proposed Esther Wakefield. And so it was agreed.

      Victoria was humming. Oh, girls, why didn’t we stay and finish singing that short number? It was so pretty! Listen. Is this right? And she hummed it over again.

      Yes, it was too bad we had to tear ourselves away from that dear piano, said Ruth Summers. Say, Hazel, what are you going to do with your poor organ? Send it to a home missionary?

      I’ll send it somewhere, I suppose. I don’t know anyone around here to give it to. I wish I could send it where it would give pleasure to someone.

      Plenty of people would probably be delighted with it if you only knew them. The owner of this forlorn furniture, for instance, said Victoria as they threaded their way between boxes and chairs that had been shoved out on the platform from a half-emptied freight car. Girls, just look at that funny old stove and those uncomfortable chairs! How would you like to set up housekeeping with that?

      The couch isn’t so bad if it were covered, said Hazel, poking it in a gingerly way with her gloved finger. It looks as though it might have been comfortable once.

      That’s Hazel all over! said Esther. If it were possible, she’d like to have that couch stay over a train or two while she re-covered it with some bright denim and made a pillow for it. Clear girlish laughter rang out, while Hazel’s cheeks grew pink as she joined in.

      Well, girls, wouldn’t that be interesting? Just think how pleased the dear old lady who owns it would be when she found the new cover, and how entirely mystified.

      You might send her your organ, suggested Ruth Summers. Perhaps she would like that just as well.

      What a lovely idea! said Hazel, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. I’ll just do it. Come, let’s look for the address.

      You romantic little goose! exclaimed her friends. Take her away! The perfect idea! I just believe she would!

      Of course I would, said Hazel. "Why shouldn’t I? Papa said I might do as I please with it. Here—this is a card behind here. Read it. ‘Christie W. Bailey, Pine Ridge, Florida.’ Girls, I shall do it. Who has a pencil? I want to write it down. Do all these things belong to the same person? Look on their cards. She must be very poor."

      Poor as a church mouse, said Victoria, if this is all she has.

      I’d like to know how you’re so sure it’s a she, said Emily Whitten. ‘Christie’ sounds as though it might belong to a man or a boy. Don’t you think so, Victoria?

      It’s an old nurse—I’m positive, said Victoria.

      I don’t believe Christie is an old nurse at all, said Hazel She’s a girl about our own age. She’s had to go to Florida on account of her health, and she’s poor, too poor to board. So she’ll keep house in a room or two—waving her hand toward the unpretentious huddling of furniture around them—and perhaps she teaches school. She’ll put the organ in the schoolroom or have a Sunday school in her own home, and I’ll write her a note and send some music for the children to learn. She can do lots of nice things with that organ.

      Now, Hazel, protested four voices. But just then the shriek of a whistle brought them all about-face and flying down the platform to reach the station before the train pulled up. In the bustle of welcoming the newcomer, Hazel’s scheme was forgotten. Not until the evening when they were seated around the great open fire did it enter the conversation again.

      Victoria Landis told the newcomer about it. Oh, Marion, you can’t think what Hazel’s latest wild scheme of philanthropy is.

      But Marion, a girl after Hazel’s own heart, listened with glowing eyes.

      Really, Hazel? she said when the tale was finished, looking at her hostess with sympathy. Won’t that be lovely! You must send it in time for Christmas. And why not pack a box to go with it? We could all help. It would be great fun and give us something not entirely selfish to do while we’re enjoying ourselves here.

      Do you mean it? said Victoria. Well, I won’t be outdone. I’ll give a covering for that old couch, and Ruth shall make a fantastic sofa pillow for it, like no other pillow seen in any house in Florida. What color—blue or red? And will denim be fine enough, or do you prefer tapestry or brocatelle? Speak up, Hazel. We’re with you hand and heart, no matter how wildly you soar this time.

      And so amid laughter and jokes the plan grew.

      I have a lot of songbooks, if you think there’s really a chance of a Sunday school, said Esther.

      There must be something pretty for the house, a good picture perhaps, mused Ruth Summers.

      Hazel’s eyes grew bright with joy as she looked from one face to another and saw they really meant what they said.

      Six pairs of hands can do much in four days. When the guests left for their various homes or schools, standing on the back porch of the old stone house on the hill were a well-packed box marked and labeled, an organ securely boxed, and a large roll, all bearing the magic words Christie W. Bailey, Pine Ridge, Fla.

      There was a great deal of discussion and argument between Mrs. Winship and her husband. They were inclined to think Hazel outdid herself in romance this time, though they were used to such unprecedented escapades from her childhood. But she finally won them all over; she explained how the goods were left at that particular freight station from up the branch road, to be put on the through freight at the junction, and enlarged upon the desolation of the life of that young girl who was moving to Florida alone. Finally, every member of the party became infected with pity for her and vied with the others to make that Christmas box the nicest ever sent to a girl.

      They began to believe in Christie and to wonder whether her name was Christine or Christiana, or simply Christie after some family name. And gradually all thought of her being other than a young girl faded from their minds.

      Mother Winship had so far forgotten her doubts as to contribute a good Smyrna rug no more in use in the stone house. She did so after the party went down to the station, watched the goods repacked in another freight car for the junction, and reported that there wasn’t a sign of a carpet in the lot. They also told how they peeked through the crack of a box of books and distinctly saw the worn cover of a textbook, which proved the school-ma’am theory, while an old blue-checked apron, visible through another crack, settled the sex of Christie irrevocably.

      Hazel Winship had written a long letter in her delicate handwriting on her finest paper, sealed it with a prayer, and gone back to her college duties a hundred miles away. Christmas was fast approaching as the three freight pieces started on their way.

      On the edge of a clearing, where the tall pines thinned against the sky and tossed their garlands of gray moss from bough to bough, stood a little cabin built of logs. It was set up on stilts out of the hot white sand, and underneath, a few chickens wandered aimlessly, as unaware of the home over their heads as mortals are of the heaven above them. Some sickly orange trees, apparently just set out, gave the excuse for the clearing, and beyond the distance stretched away into desolation and blackjack oaks.

      A touch of whitewash here and there and a bit of grass—which in that part of the world was so scarce that it was usually used for a path instead of being a setting for that path—would have done wonders for the place. But only the white, neglected, mushy sand was there, discouraging alike to wheel and foot.

      Inside the cabin were a rusty cookstove, a sulky teakettle at the back and the remains of a meal in a greasy frying pan still over the dead fire. An old table was drawn out with one leaf up and piled with unwashed dishes, boxes of crackers and papers of various foods. The couch in the corner was evidently the old bed, and the red-and-gray blankets

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