TIME GOES ON AGAIN---
Hardly had Judy closed her eyes for the second time, however, than the
globular object she had noticed in the corner stirred. It turned, but
turned all over, as though it were a ball. It made a sideways movement
too, a movement best described as budging. And, accompanying the
movements, was a comfortable, contented, satisfied sound that some
people call deep breathing, and others call a sigh.
The globular outline then grew slightly longer; one portion of it left
the central mass, but left it slowly. The lower part prolonged itself.
Slight cracks were audible like sharp reports, muffled but quite
distinct. Next, the other end of the ball extended itself, twisted in a
leisurely fashion sideways, rose above the general surface and plainly
showed itself. It, too, was round. It emerged. Upon its surface shone
two small pools of blue. It was a face. Even in the grey, uncertain
light this was beyond dispute. It was Maria's face.
Maria awoke. She looked about her calmly. Her mind, ever unclouded
because it thought of one thing only, took in the situation at a
glance. It was dawn, she was in bed and sleepy, it was not time to get
up. Dawn, sleep, bed and time belonged to her. There certainly was no
hurry.
The pools of blue then disappeared together, the smaller ball sank down
into the pillow to join the larger one, the lower portion that had
stretched itself drew in again, and a peaceful sigh informed the
universe that Maria intended to resume her interrupted slumbers. She
became once more a mere globular outline, self-contained, at rest.
But, in accepting life as it really was by lying down again, the lesser
ball had imperceptibly occupied a new position. Maria's head had
shifted. Her ear now pressed against another portion of the pillow. And
this pressure, communicating itself to an object that lay beneath the
pillow, touched a small brass handle, jerked it forward, released a bit
of quivering wire connected with a set of wheels, and set in motion the
entire insides of this hidden object. There was a sound of grating.
This hard, metallic sound rose through the feathers, a clicking,
thudding noise that reached her brain. It was--she knew instantly--the
stopped alarum clock. It had been overwound. The weight of her head had
started it again.
Maria, as usual, by doing nothing in particular, had accomplished much.
By yielding herself to her surroundings, she united her insignificant
personal forces with the gigantic purposes of Life. She swung
contentedly in rhythm with the universe. Maria had set the clock going
again!
There was excitement in her then, but certainly no hurry. Disturbing
herself as little as possible, she pushed one hand beneath the pillow,
drew out the ticking clock, looked at it quietly, remembered sleepily
that it had stopped at dawn--Uncle Felix had said so--put it on the
chair beside her bed, and promptly retired again into her eternal
centre.
"Tim's clock," she realised, "but I've got it." There was no expression
on her face whatever. Another child might have taken the trouble--felt
interested, at any rate--to try and see what time it was. But Maria,
aware that the dim light would make this a difficult and tedious
operation, did nothing of the sort. It could make no difference anyhow
to any one, anywhere! She was content to know that it was some time or
other, and that the clock was going again. Her plan of life was:
interfere with nothing. She did not know, therefore, that the hands
pointed with accuracy to 4 A. M., because she merely did not care to
know. But, not caring to know placed her on a loftier platform of
intelligence than the rest of the world--certainly above that of her
sister, Judy, who was snoring softly among the shadows just across the
room. Maria didn't know that she didn't know. No one could rebuke her
with "You might have known," much less "You didn't know,"--because she
didn't know she didn't know! It was the biggest kind of knowledge in
the world. Maria had it.
But before she actually regained her absolute centre, and long before
she lost sight of herself within its depths, dim thoughts came floating
through her mind like pictures that moonlight paints upon high summer
clouds. She saw these pictures; that is, she looked at them and
recognised their existence; but she asked no questions. They reached
her through the ticking of the busy clock beside the bed; the ticking
brought them; but it brought them back. Maria remembered things. And
chief among them were the following: That Uncle Felix had promised
everybody an Extra Day, that he had stopped all the clocks to let it
come, that this Extra Day was to be her own particular adventure, that
last night was Saturday, and that this was, therefore, Sunday morning,
very early.
And the instant she remembered these things, they were real--for her.
She accepted them, one and all, even the contradictions in them. If
this was actually an Extra Day it could not be Sunday morning too, and
_vice versa_. But yet she knew it was. Both were. The confusion was a
confusion of words only. There were too many words about.
"Why not?" expressed her attitude. The clock might tick itself to death
for all she cared. The Extra Day was her adventure and she claimed it.
But she did not bother about it.
Above all, she asked no questions. Nothing really meant anything in
particular, because everything meant everything. To ask questions, even
of herself, involved hearing a lot of answers and listening to them.
But answers were explanations, and explanations muddled and obscured.
Explanations were a new set of questions merely. People who didn't know
asked questions, and people who didn't understand gave explanations.
Aunt Emily explained--because she didn't understand. Also, because she
didn't understand, she didn't know. To ask a question was the same
thing as to explain it. Everything was one thing. She, Maria, both knew
and understood.
She did not say all this, she did not think it even; she just felt it
all: it was her feeling. Believing in her particular adventure of an
Extra Day, she had already experienced it. She had shared it with the
others too. It was _her_ Extra Day, so she could do with it what she
pleased. "They can have it," she gave the clock to understand. "I'm
going to sleep again." All life was an extra day to her.
She went to sleep; sleep, rather, came to her. Happy dreams amused and
comforted her. And, while she dreamed, the dawn slid higher up the sky,
ushering in--Sunday Morning.