THE TWO-LIGHT TIME
Sunday brought rain, and Mrs. Bennett decided that May Nell must remain
quietly in the house. The only apparent result of her exciting day,
and the faint, was a languor that made her willing to obey, to curl
up by the fire, with Sir Thomas by her side. He was a tremendous cat,
who accepted lazily all the caresses bestowed upon him, while Flash,
his white mate, was shy, and unless forced, would not appear before
strangers.
“They’re great frauds, those aristocratic cats of sister’s,” Billy
explained; “not a bit of use. They won’t fight, and--”
“O Billy, think how many gophers Flash catches, and what gentlemen they
are in the house,” Edith defended. She was chorister for one of the
churches, and was now gathering her music.
“You never give my cats a chance,” Billy complained.
“Yes, we have, Billy,” Mrs. Bennett corrected. “Bring them in now.
Let May Nell see our entire cat family.” She followed him out, and
presently returned with a plate of cut meat which she placed on a
newspaper on the hearth.
“A cat tablecloth!” the little girl laughed.
“That’s for Billy’s cats; mine need none,” Edith declared.
The child reared without pets was delighted with the animal life about
her; the cats, old Bouncer, the white chickens, and pigeons cooing in
the loft.
Mrs. Bennett called. The cats walked leisurely to the hearth, sat down,
one on either side, and began to eat, each from his own side of the
plate. They were as deliberate and dainty as well-bred children.
Billy entered with a cat under each arm. “Geewhillikins,” he
introduced, “the best fighter in town,” and put down a stub-tailed,
gray cat, half as large as the house pets, with “tom-cat” speaking from
every hair of him. “I think mamma’s partial,--she lets sister’s cats
come in the house, but not mine.”
Geewhillikins did not wait for four feet to be on the floor to spring
at the plate. He put his paws on one pile of meat, and began to gobble
the other, growling savagely. The house cats drew back, curled their
tails around their forefeet, and looked at the gorger in calm disdain.
“You haven’t noticed Jerusalem Crickets, yet,” Billy said impressively,
anxious to distract attention from the little drama at the plate. He
placed his second cat on the floor, a gaunt creature, brindled in many
colors, with great scared-looking eyes. “She’s afraid of everybody.
She never had any home till I brought her here, poor thing! Just kicked
from door to door. And Geewhillikins, too--he was a tiny kitten put in
a sack to drown out in the creek. And he was so plucky he just wiggled
to shallow water and hollered for a deliverer. Of course that kind of
cats don’t have manners. How could they?” Billy was a fine special
pleader.
“He was a real little cat Moses, wasn’t he? And you--you must be
Pharaoh’s son instead of daughter.” The child laughed and clapped her
hands.
Meantime Jerusalem Crickets, escaped from Billy’s arm and eye, was
sneaking about for prey; and a clinking sound from the pantry warned
them that she had found it.
“Run, Billy! You left the door open--she’ll get the dinner!” Mrs.
Bennett cautioned, hurrying out herself to reckon the loss.
“It’s only a chop left from yesterday,” he excused on his return.
“It might have been to-day’s roast,” Edith protested, as she took the
snarling Geewhillikins from his feast. “You see why Billy’s cats don’t
come in the house, May Nell.”
“Did you forget their breakfast, Billy?” the child questioned earnestly.
“No, Billy never forgets his cats,” his sister answered for him;
“though the chickens might sometimes suffer but for mamma. Take your
ill-bred felines out, Billy.”
He obeyed, talking whimsically to his pets as he went.
“Flash and Tom wouldn’t touch meat left on the table alone with them
for a day,” Edith said as she replenished the plate, shook and folded
away the paper, and called her cats.
They walked up as before, and ate slowly, piece by piece, neither
touching a morsel on the opposite side of the division line. Sir Thomas
finished first, and looked on while Flash minced more daintily. He did
not eat all, but walked off to the plush-cushioned chair they claimed
as their own. Sir Thomas watched him curl up and rest his nose on his
white forepaws, then quickly finished the rest of the meat and joined
him. And now such a toilet began. Each groomed the other; yet, as
always, Tom tired first while Flash worked on till they both shone like
silk, when he put his long arms about Tom, nestled his head close down,
and both slept.
The little girl forgot herself in watching them, till Billy came in,
smart and almost handsome in his best suit.
“Are your going to church?” she asked, disappointment drawing her lips
to a tremulous curve.
“I have to help sister, you know.”
“But it isn’t ten o’clock.”
“Sunday School comes first.”
“Sunday School, too? How long you’ll be away!”
Billy made no reply. He wondered if he ought to stay at home.
“Do you like it, Sunday School, I mean? I don’t. I like church,
though,--the great booming organ, the beautiful singing. And when the
minister speaks I just float away into fairy-land and never come back
till he says, ‘The-Lord-make-his-face-to-shine-upon-us-amen.’”
“I like Sunday School best ’cause I do things there.”
“What things?”
“I’m sec’etary; and I pass the books, and sing; and I’m--I’m giggle
squelcher.”
“What a funny word! What do you mean?”
“Why, you see,” Billy hesitated, for he was modest, “sister has a
class of us heathen boys, and--well, you see, it’s this way; sister
says,--she’s partial, you know,--she says I have influence; if I don’t
giggle the others won’t, and she gets on O. K.”
“How splendid! You must go, Billy. Do all the boys mind you?”
“All but Sour; an’ sister’s fixed him. He’s crazy over music, and she
got his father to let him take lessons, and that kid’s her slave ever
since. But it isn’t minding, Ladybird; the guys take my cue, and we
tell things we’ve hunted up in the week about the lesson; and sister
tells things, and we’re so busy we forget to be silly.”
May Nell looked at him a minute before speaking. “You like doing
things, but you don’t like work. Isn’t work doing things?”
Billy stooped to tie shoestrings already tidy; he was gaining time for
thinking. “I reckon doing things you don’t like is work, and doing
things you do like is play,” he explained, doubtfully.
“But some people like their work, don’t they?” May Nell persisted. She
was exploring strange country.
“I guess so. Teacher says every live thing that’s happy works; birds,
flowers, children; that those that won’t work shouldn’t eat. He says
the greatest joy is to do the work you like best as well as you can.”
“I’ve never worked,” May Nell said reminiscently; “but there’s one hard
thing I’ve done--I’ve kept very still when mama has her headaches.”
“Gee whack! That’s the hardest work of all,” Billy complimented.
Edith came in dressed for church.
“My conscience! How lovely and stylish you look!” The child, accustomed
to elegant dress, praised with discriminating eyes.
When brother and sister left her, strange thoughts flitted through
her head. She heard Mrs. Bennett beating eggs in the kitchen; saw the
logs Billy had piled in the wood-box. On the wall above the piano hung
Edith’s schedule--time table, Billy called it. May Nell had already
studied it, had seen the fifty or more lessons set for each week;
and needlework on the music table, and books there the child had
discovered were for music study,--these told her what a busy woman
Billy’s sister must be.
Yet it was very strange, they were all happy! Happier, she felt, than
her own mother with maids and money, gems, rich gowns, and her motor
car at command. Why was it? “Those that won’t work shouldn’t eat.”
Could that be true? Then she should not eat, for she never worked. She
wondered how it would seem to work.
Full of her thought she slipped from the couch, and went to the
kitchen. “Mrs. Bennett, haven’t you some work a little girl could do?”
The divining woman looked into May Nell’s beautiful eyes, too deep and
thoughtful for her slender body; drew her close and kissed her. “Yes,
dear, just the nicest sort of work for a little girl. You may hull
these strawberries; and if you eat some for toll I shan’t be looking.”
The child seeing the twinkle in the older eyes, laughed aloud; and,
wrapped in a voluminous apron, began the first task that had ever left
its stain on her pretty fingers.
Her questions brought long and wonderful tales of Billy’s younger life;
of Edith when she, too, was a little girl. The child helped to set the
table, carried in bread, salad plates, and jelly. “It shakes like the
fat woman at the circus when she laughed. How do you make jelly?”
“Next month when currants are ripe you shall see.”
“And help?” May Nell asked, eagerly.
“If you wish to do so.”
Why, it was going to be fine to work! Why had she not known it before?
Services were over before she found time to be lonely. Dinner passed
happily. The cats stayed quietly in their chair till dessert, when they
came, one on either side of Edith, and stood with their forepaws on the
table, their heads and shoulders above it.
“Flash has cake, Sir Thomas cheese,” Edith explained, giving each
his coveted bit. They took the morsels from her fingers, ate them
delicately, and mewed once. “That’s ‘Thank you,’” Edith interpreted.
“It’s a hurry-up order for more,” Billy amended.
“No more, kitties; that’s all that is good for you. Go back to your
chair.”
They looked at her a minute, dropped reluctantly to the floor, and
retired.
“Why, they know what you say--mind!” May Nell exclaimed, admiringly.
“Obedience, thy name is cats,” Billy preached solemnly.
It had stopped raining, but was still cloudy. This was the hour when
Billy usually wheeled long miles by himself, dreaming dreams no one but
a boy knows how to dream. Nothing short of a downpour ever hindered
him; thus mother and sister knew it was genuine self-sacrifice that
kept him beside the little girl through the long afternoon.
All his treasures, pictures, marbles, mineral specimens, what not,
were displayed and explained. And finally came the books, when Billy
discovered that she knew most of his favorites, loved them as he did,
and could introduce him to new ones that promised delight.
So the hours passed. The two women had their quiet rest till five
o’clock when they came down for the usual singing. May Nell had a sweet
voice, surprisingly strong for a child; and when she asked to play her
own accompaniment to a little song unknown to Edith, the latter was
surprised by the child’s skill, and still more by her rare feeling and
expression.
“I can dance, too,” she said with childish pride.
“Sister, she’ll be hunkey for the fairy queen in your Spring Festival,
won’t she? She’s a regular progidy, isn’t she?” Billy’s eyes shone.
“Can he mean ‘prodigy,’ do you think, May Nell?” Edith’s eyes were
mischievous.
“I mix up words that way sometimes, too,” the child excused.
“Bully for you, Ladybird. I’ve got a backer you see, sister.”
“I like ‘Ladybird,’ but not ‘bully,’” the little girl returned shyly.
Supper passed. Edith went to church, Billy to keep an appointment
with his teacher; and the spring twilight settled down over the room.
Mrs. Bennett knew this would be a trying hour, and hastened her work,
inventing some light task for May Nell; hastened also the errand to
her own room. Yet though she was gone but a moment, on returning a sob
greeted her from the cuddled heap on the couch.
She took the child in her comforting arms. “Don’t cry, little one! We
shall find her, never fear.”
“But this is the time my mama needs me,” May Nell sobbed; “Sunday night
in the two-light time, before the stars come out, really, and when the
shadow people creep from the corners and blink at you.”
“We won’t have any shadow people to-night, darling.” Mrs. Bennett
rose and turned on the lights, though it was not yet dark; drew the
curtains, and punched the fire till a storm of sparks sputtered up the
chimney.
“My papa told me to be a very brave little girl, and no matter what
happened to take care of my mama. And now--I’ve l-lost her; and my
braveness is all leaking away.” She covered her face with her hands and
sobbed bitterly.
Mrs. Bennett hugged her closer and patted her cheek softly, but let the
passion of tears spend itself a little before trying the comfort of
words. Then she questioned of the child’s parents, her past life, and
the events just preceding the catastrophe in San Francisco, that she
herself might better understand how to shield and make happy the little
waif that a terrible, heaving earth had cast into her home, her arms.
“Papa went away to South America when I was eight. He told me I must be
very wise and help mama to do what was right,--sometimes she does take
my advice, you know. I’ve tried to be brave so God would bring her back
to me; but my braveness isn’t very strong yet, or I wouldn’t cry so,
would I?” she questioned, with a teary little smile.
Not all at once but slowly, with mother’s tact, Mrs. Bennett won the
little heart to partial peace; and when the gate clicked, and Billy’s
voice was heard, she was almost gay. “I must be laughing when they come
in,” she whispered, “so they won’t see the tears in my eyes and think I
am unthankful.”
The door opened on a smiling little face, though she tried to keep in
the shadow. Still when Billy kissed his mother good-night, caught
his sister in his arms and raced up and down with her, singing
extravagantly a snatch from some opera, May Nell hid her face and cried
again.
Watchful Mrs. Bennett was not far away. She stopped the boy’s noise,
and cuddled the bereft one once more. “What is it, child? You are to be
brave, you know.”
“Y-yes, b-but how can I when I have no one to say ‘mama’ to, only a
Mrs.”
“You have, you have, dear baby! I’ll be your mother, and you can call
me ‘mamma’ as Billy does.”
“And you’re my Ladybird sister,” Billy said, very softly for him, and
threw his arm about them both.
“And, darling, I know how to find your mother,” Edith encouraged,
brushing her own moist eyes, and clasping them all in her round young
arms. “I’ll have your picture taken, and get it in all the papers--”
“Just like a football champion,” Billy interrupted.
“No, like a prima donna,” his sister retorted.
“Rather like a dear little girl, that so will find her mother,” Mrs.
Bennett reassured.
Amid the wealth of love how could the little heart refuse comfort?
Billy tossed her to his shoulder and carried her to his mother’s room,
where both women coddled her and Edith sang her into a sweet sleep.