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T H E K I N G ’ S B U S I N E S S
April, 1938
Song at Tw iligh t A Story By PAUL HUTCHENS
Illustration by Ransom D. Marvin
He'd let her drive, as he always did. Such a big, fine carl
M a r y l o u is e h a y n e s was sing- ing happily to herself, not one of the new songs that were on the lips of every one, but an old, old song, so very old that she had known it all her life — almost twenty years. She liked the old songs best. All of life was a song today. Her soft contralto lingered over the words as she busied herself about the room, dust ing, rearranging chairs, making the bed. “ Comes love’s old swe-e-e-t song,” she finished, relinquishing the last tone only when she ran out of breath. The effect was delightful. She began again from the begin ning: Tonight he would come, in the twilight: the lights would be low, the evening shad ows gone. A radiant light would shine all through their long, happy evening together. First a spin in his car up to Summit Peak; a half hour’s lingering over refreshments at the Paradise; then home, where, with evening shadows gone and with the parlor light’s soft glow over the room, she would sit at the piano and play for him, “Just a song at twilight.” He would sit in the big arm chair and watch her fingers as they idled caressingly over the keys. Then he would join her with his rich tenor, and they would sing the song through to its end—together. All of today should be a song. Thriller, the golden canary in the parlor downstairs was already heralding the morning in full- throated enthusiasm. The early spring leaves, outside the window, were fresh and green, and they were singing, too. She descended the stairs and busied her self in the kitchen, helping Mother with the breakfast. Commonplace duties were not irksome today. They never were when she was happy; and with Mary Louise that was all the time— almost. She sang at her work: dish washing, cleaning, little chores for Mother, errands to do uptown, tomor row’s Sunday-school lesson preparation, se lecting the music for the young people’s meeting tomorrow night. “Just a song at twilight, When the lights are low.”
The whole day tomorrow should be hap py. Mary Louise had always liked Sundays, had gone to church all her life. She liked the music, the crowds, the buzzing of voices, the little visits between Sunday-school and church. She even liked the sermons. The solemnity and the— the goodness of it all appealed to her. “ Isn’t this Tom ’s evening?” Mother asked chummily, as Mary Louise put on her neat fitting new fall hat before going uptown to the store. Mother knew it was, but she liked to pretend she had forgotten. “Tom ’s and mine— ours!” Mary Louise was glad Mother liked Tom, glad, too, that she was such an understanding mother. “And mine,” Mother added. Mary Louise came back. “ You do like him, don’t you, Mother? I’m so glad you do.” She planted an impulsive kiss on her mother’s cheek and patted the graying hair, and was away on her errand. Mother Haynes sighed and listened for a moment to Thriller’s jubilant song. “ It isn’t going to be all singing,” she told her self, “ not at all.” She looked through the open door into the parlor and fixed her eyes upon the little yellow songster, whose throat was puffed out proudly, his little body rigid, his bill wide open, while the melody poured forth. “ There is the cage to con sider. It’s easy to sing when you’re free! But when you’re in the cage—they’ll have plenty o f surprises, I’m thinking. They all do.” The day passed, and in the evening Tom was there. Mary Louise was ready, and when Tona came up the steps, she was there to meet him, holding out both hands to him. “ Hello, Mary Louise!” he greeted. “ H ello!” They looked into each other’s eyes soberly, then laughed and went into the house together. Tom wanted to see Mother, to tell her, as he always did, how glad he was to see her and that he’d be very careful to bring Mary Louise home safely. Oh, Tom was gallant and chival rous ! “W e’re taking a little spin up to Summit in the twilight,” Mary Louise told Mother. It was going to be fun riding with Tom. He’d let her drive as he always did. Such a big, fine car! She was proud to ride in it with him. “What makes you so sober?” she asked
him, when they left the porch. The car was waiting at the curb. “ Sober? Have you ever known me to be otherwise?” She laughed. That was another thing. Tom had principles. She let out a little gasp of surprise when they came to the car. This wasn’t Tom ’s ca r! Not—not this old model I Then she told herself that perhaps his own car had something wrong and was being repaired. ® H o w do you like my new bus?” he asked. She noticed his voice was languid. “ Fine!” But something must be wrong. Had there been an accident or something? Had he wrecked his new car? “ Care to drive?” She slipped under the wheel, then slid over to the other side. “ It might be afraid of a woman driver.” She laughed, embar rassed. Something
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