ALL THE TIME THERE IS

New Zealand Tablet, 17 August 1911, Page 1557

ALL THE TIME THERE IS

• The sunlight of an April afternoon fell through the tender leaves of the grape-arbor. The little tendrils had begun to show their hyacinthian curves. Arthur Bowen took the cup of tea his wife offered him, and looked through the long arbor to the road. A little girl, very poorly dressed, was passing down the road.

Mrs. Bowen replaced her cup and saucer on the Sheffield tray, and followed the child with her eyes. The husband finished his cup of tea. He was thirsty; he and his wife had walked from Vespers in the church at Seagirt. Ah, my dear,' he said, this is comfort! No visitors expected, a lovely afternoon, and that bad, bold baby boy of our sound asleep—and quiet!' 'For shame!' said Mrs. Bowen, rather unattentively. 'Heis an angel even when he is naughty. That was little Clara Fallon. Did you notice how poorly she was dressed?' ... 'Rather!' said her husband, taking another piece of toast. * I fancy she feels it, too. I see that she always takes the last pew in church; and I noticed that, after Mass, she ran off as quickly as possible.' 'lt's too bad!' burst out Mrs. Bowen, her brown eyes flashing. If I were John Wilson, with fifteen thousand a year, I'd learn something of the lives of these decent folk around us, and help them. But there he is with a new automobile every year. I'm sure, Arthur, that if you had fifteen thousand instead of two, if you could go up to the office every day in a white Mercedes instead of going in a cramped car seat as a "commuter," you'd do something for the people about us. Rich people are heartless. What a callous old bachelor John Wilson is! And yet there he is every Sunday, in the first pew, praying away, at the 9 o'clock Mass, and then, rushing off somewhere in his white devil. He is heartless!'

'No, No!' answered Arthur Bowen, nibbling at a cake. 'He doesn't think, because he hasn't time.' . 'Hasn't time!' exclaimed his wife, incredulously. Hasn't time ! he has all the time there is. Sarah Fallon, the elder sister, goes only to the 6 o'clock Mass now; her hat and old mourning dress are dreadful. Since her father died, she does plain sewing wherever she;can get it. She did all baby's things; -when she s finished his last little frock, I noticed that her hat was awful. "There are some beautiful spring straws," I said, "at Price's for only seventy-five cents." "You don't know," she answered, with that soft glow in her face that makes her at times a very pretty girl, "how hard it is for some of us to earn seventy-five cents." She keeps Clara at school and pays off the interest on their house. Of course she can't afford to buy new clothes. Oh, these heartless rich people !' 'They haven't time, r repeated her husband, seriously. *We haven't time.' ' Certainly we haven't time. I haven't time. I'd help the Fallons if I could. I often think that I'll send Brigetta over to the Fallons to buy some of their early vegetables—Clara has actually raised some lettuce and things under glass—but she's always too busy. With one maid, it's really hard!' added Mrs. Bowen, with a sigh. _' I must finish those napkins l must embroider ten initials; and then I've got to make a hundred little sandwiches for the Sodality supper for Tuesday, each tied with light blue ribbon to match the candle shades.' 'How tired you will be, my dear!' said Arthur, with a twinkle in his eyes. 'Think of sandwiches without blue ribbons to match the candle shades!' And then he added, hastily: 'I must remember to bring down a box of Henry Clays to-morrow. Do remind me!' 'I once thought that that stupid heartless John Wilson rather liked Sara Fallon; he used to see her at church on Sunday. Now he never sees her, because she has nothing to wear; and she and her little sister are very sensitive about it. A hat makes a great difference to a girl.' ° Arthur Bowen chuckled a moment; then, remembering the piteous little figure stealing shamefacedly from the church, he. became serious. Unlike most men, he when it was carefully pointed out to him, understand a woman's point of view. The shadows grew longer. The spring chorus from the salt marshes strengthened as twlight approached. 'Dear! dear!' said his wife. 'I hate to think of to-morrow. Every Monday seems busier than every other Monday. I must try to tuck baby's dress, and the Villards are coming to dinner. I'll have to make the mayonnaise myself, and run everywhere for some spring flowers for the table. I don't think I can find enough violets— oh, dear! There's baby!' And she ran off. - Arthur Bowen sat contemplating the darkening landscape. He lit. a cigar, and said to himself: 'The —we're always blaming the rich; we never blame ourselves. And yet we have all the time there is, too. The rich make a thousand artificial cares for themselves, and we, too—' He drifted off into a reverie, for his cigar was good; and then he said: 'We make useless cares for ourselves, and we have got into the habit of imagining luxuries to be necessities.' After a time Mrs. Bowen came down, and they went into the sitting-room—' the garden-room,' they liked to call it, because the apple trees of the old orchard and the tall hollyhocks waved constant greetings to the windows. ' Do you know it quite went to my heart when Sara Fallon said that I had no idea what seventy-five cents meant to persons in her position ? I wish we had something to give.' 'We have,' said the husband, throwing a bit of driftwood in the grate. Oh, my dear,' answered his wife, 'you mean that you could give up something! But you can't. Why nobody but an.angel like you would wear that evening suit. It's almost green; you certainly need a new one. And I —' She made a little gesture of despair. 'No,' he answered; 'I mean that we could give time.' 6

Time ! 0, my dear, I haven't a minute ! Brigetta —good Swedish soul! —spends her time in trying, to. fight the dust. Really, I'm ashamed to touch those mahogany shelves for fear that I shall leave finger-marks. I can almost write my name . ' ' A little dust doesn't count,' said Arthur. ' What I mean is this. Cut out the mayonnaise for dinner. You'll gain half an hour in that way. And baby's tucks—you ought to save ten minutes by leaving that amiable child tuckless. He won't care.'

- It will take just two hours,' said his wife, seriously. And if you don't bother yourself about putting the blue ribbons on the sandwiches, you'll gain at least half an hour; and the napkins—' Of course I couldn't think of doing everything in one day. I didn't mean that I was really going to work all the initials on Monday.'

You see, my dear you'll have three hours free to do a good act. You can make a hat for Sara Fallon —an Easter hat.'

'Arthur!' cried Mrs. Bowen, amazed.

' I've thought it out,' said Arthur, smiling a little shamefacedly. It did occur to him that "he was trespassing on his wife's domain. ' You see, I am going to give up the box of Henry Clays; a half dozen will be enough. Villard smokes cigarettes, and I'll allow myself just one cigar a day during Holy Week. Here's the cash down.' He fished out a note from his waistcoast pocket and handed it to his wife. ' With your time and my money, we can make up for the carelessness of the heartless rich.' He laughed. Mrs. Bowen was silent in amazement. She could do without the bine ribbons for Tuesday night; she could do without the mayonnaise for Monday night; the tucks, after all, were luxurious, and the initials on the napkins not by any means necessary. But that her husband should discover this in such a cold, logical way! She was inclined to be angry at first. He was invading her kingdom with a vengeance. Then she laughed. After all she was a reasonable woman. ' I can make two hats, I believe, if I can get the time,' she laughed again. 'To think of a stupid man telling me that! But the Fallons would be too proud to take what they hadn't earned.' ' Send over and ask for all their lettuce for your dinner to-night. They like to give. Make a great favor of it—the Villards are coming, and you haven't time for your usual salad, etc., etc. Then you can pay them with the Easter hats; and if Sara should appear at the late Mass in a suitable hat, who knows?'

Mrs. Bowen's eyes sparkled. You are ridiculous, Arthur,' she said—'perfectly ridiculous! Nevertheless, your idea about the salad is good. The Fallons do love to give, but they don't know how to take. Do you know, Arthur, I think we poor people could do more, if we made our lives more simple? Men sometimes have good ideas.' She laughed softly to herself. Brigetta returned at this moment; and, the baby being left in her care, the Bowens went out for a walk. As he boarded his train the next morning, Arthur, like a good 'commuter,' bore various orders with him (one especially for a little bottle of paprika he had resolved to remember, for he had forgotten it six times); the other was contained in an envelope addressed to a certain department shop, which he had sworn to visit at noon. He brought home various odd-shaped bundles. 'Jhe dinner to the Villards went off very well; and the crisp, early salad from the Fallon's garden was a most successful feature.

' Look !' said his wife, gleefully, showing him a blue silk arrangement, twined with pink roses. ' I made that for Clara Fallon from an old hat of my own, and those roses were the ones I intended for the new lamp .shade.

'Roses on lamp shades,' said Arthur, 'are like pillow-shams— I have brought the frame for the other hat and all the other stuff besides.'

Yes, it's all right,' said Mrs Bowen. ' I shall be able to finish the other hat to-morrow evening, and go to the School Hall to help arrange things for the Sodality supper, too. Sallie shall have a'beauty of an Easter hat. But I could have cried when I saw you offering a small handful of cigars/

Arthur laughed. \ r 'Villard doesn't smoke cigars.' -■■■'•. ' I wrote to the Fallons saying that their salad had actually saved my life and the dinner. You ought to have seen Clara Fallon's face when she brought the lettuce ! She was so pleased to have something to give ! I said: " You must let me give you something I shall make you for Easter!" She was delighted.' Sara Fallon, at the High Mass on Easter Sunday, looked very well, indeed. Her straw hat was a thing of roses and ribbons and beauty. Her gloves were darned, and her white frock (she had ceased to wear black on that day) was carefully preserved. The experts knew this; but she was quite radiant, and held her head high. Clara sat beside her sister, properly adorned, and at peace with the world. Mrs. Bowen noticed that John Wilson waited at the church door to bow to Miss Fallon as she passed out. 'lt has worked!' whispered Arthur. 'What?' asked his wife, seemingly unattentive. ' You are perfectly ridiculous ! As they walked home from Benediction, the Bowens saw John Wilson descending from his white automobile with a big bunch of Japanese quinces and early lilacs in his hand. This was in front of the Fallon house. In half an hour Mrs. Bowen, for no apparent reason, insisted on passing the house again. The automobile was still there. Arthur smiled.

' John Wilson seems to have all the time there is.' 'How ridiculous!' said ' Mrs. Bowen, frowning. ' I'll just call for a moment; you can go on—' But John Wilson came down the garden path, passing Clara's vegetable frames, yet not seeing them. ' Congratulate me,' he said, his rather serious face smiling broadly. Arthur laughed. ' I don't see what you are laughing about, Arthur. What are you thinking of?' whispered Mrs. Bowen. 'The heartless rich!' he answered.—Maurice Francis Egan, in Ave Maria.