The Story of a Whim (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

      CHAPTER III

       “AND WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO SAY TO HER?"

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      The young man felt a rising tendency to swear. He had forgotten all about the fellows and their agreement to meet and have the day out in jollification. So great had been the spell upon him that he had forgotten to put the little feminine things away from curious eyes.

      There he stood foolishly in the middle of his own floor, a bunch of "weeds" in his hand which he had not the sense to drop, while afar the sound of a cracked church bell gave a soft reminder, which the distant popping of firecrackers at a cabin down the road confirmed, that this was Christmas Day. Christmas Day, and the face of the Christ looking down at him tenderly from his own wall.

      The oath that was rising to his lips at his foolish plight was stayed. He could not take that name in vain with those eyes upon him. The spell was not broken even yet.

      With a sudden quick settling of his lips, he threw back his head, daring in his eyes, and walked over to the glass vase to fill it with water. It was like him to brave it out and tell the whole story now that he was caught.

      He was a broad-shouldered young man, firmly knit, with a head well set on his shoulders, and but for a certain careless slouch in his gait might have been fine to look upon. His face was not handsome, but he had good brown eyes with deep hazel lights in them that kindled when he looked at you.

      His hair was red, deep and rich, and decidedly curly. His gestures were strong and regular. If there had not been a certain hardness about his face he would have been interesting, but that look made one turn away disappointed.

      His companions were both big men like himself. The Englishman—one of that large class of second or third sons with a good education and a poor fortune, and very little practical knowledge how to better it, so many of whom come to Florida to try orange-growing—was loose-jointed and awkward, with pale blue eyes, hay-colored hair, and a large jaw with loose lips. The other was handsome and dark, with a weak mouth and daring black eyes which continually warred with one another.

      Both were dressed in rough clothes, trousers tucked into boots with spurs, dark flannel shirts, and soft riding-hats. The Englishman wore gloves and affected a certain loud style in dress. They carried their riding-whips, and walked undismayed upon the bright colors of the rug.

      "O, I say now, get off there with those great clods of boots, can't you?" exclaimed Christie, with a sudden descent of housewifely carefulness. "Anybody'd think you'd been brought up in a barn, Armstrong."

      Armstrong put on his eye-glasses,—he always wore them as if they were a monocle,—and examined the rug carefully.

      "Aw, I beg pawdon! Awfully nice, ain't it? Sorry I didn't bring my patent leathers along. Remind me next time, please, Mawtimer."

      Christie told the story of his Christmas gifts in as few words as possible. Somehow he did not feel like elaborating it.

      The guests seized upon the photograph of the girls, and became hilarious over it.

      "Takes you for a girl, does she?" said Mortimer. "That’s great! Which one is she? I choose that fine one with snapping black eyes and handsome teeth. She knew her best point, or she wouldn't have laughed when her picture was taken."

      Victoria Landis's eyes would have snapped indeed, could she have heard the comments upon herself and the others; but she was safe out of hearing, far up in the North.

      The comments went on most freely. Christie found himself disgusted with his friends. Only yesterday he would have laughed at all they said, and now what made the difference? Was it that letter? Would the other fellows feel the same if he should read it to them?

      But he never would! The red blood stole up in his face. He could hear their shouts of laughter now over the tender little girlish phrases. It should not be desecrated. He was glad indeed that he had put it in his coat pocket the night before.

      There seemed to be a sacredness about the letter and the pictures and all the things, and it went against the grain to hear the coarse laughter of his friends.

      At last they began to speak about the girl in the centre of the group, the clear-eyed, firm-mouthed one whom he had selected for Hazel. His blood boiled. He could stand it no longer. With one sweep of his long, strong arm he struck the picture from them with "Aw, shut up! You make me tired!" and, picking it up, put it in his pocket.

      Where at the fun of his companions took a new turn. It suited their fancy to examine the toilet-table decked out in blue and lace. The man named Mortimer knew the lace collars and handkerchiefs for woman's attire, and they turned upon their most unwilling host and decked him in fine array.

      He sat helpless and mad, with a large lace collar over his shoulders, and another hanging down in front arranged over the bureau-cover, which was spread across him as a background, while a couple of lace-bordered handkerchiefs adorned his head.

      "And what are you going to say to her for all these pretty presents, Christie, my girl?" laughed Mortimer.

      "Say to her!" gasped Christie.

      It had not occurred to him before that it would be necessary to say anything. A horrible oppression seemed to be settling down upon his chest. He wished that the whole array of things were back in their boxes and on their way to their ridiculous owners. He got up, and kicked at the rug, and tore the lace finery from his neck, stumbling on the lavender bedroom slippers which his tormentors had stuck on the toes of his shoes.

      "Why, certainly, man,—I beg your pardon,—my dear girl—" went on Mortimer. "You don't intend to be so rude as not to reply, or say, 'I thank you very kindly.’”