The Bent Twig | Page 4

at her, "You only learned through trying, all those many years
ago when you were Judith's age!"
Mother put on one of her big gingham aprons and made the omelet, and
they sat down to the table out on the veranda as they always did in
warm weather. In La Chance it begins to be warm enough for outdoor
life in April. Although it was still bright daylight for ever so long after
the sun had set, the moon came and looked at them palely over the tops
of the trees.
After supper they jumped up to "race through the dishes," as the family
catchword ran. They tried to beat their record every evening and it was
always a lively occasion, with Mother washing like lightning, and
Father hurrying to keep up, Sylvia running back and forth to put things
away, and Judith bothering 'round, handing out dry dish-towels, and
putting away the silver. She was allowed to handle that because she
couldn't break it. Mother and Judith worked in a swift silence, but a

great deal of talking and laughing went on between Sylvia and her
father, while Buddy, from his high-chair where he was watching the
others, occasionally broke out in a loud, high crow of delight. They did
it all, even to washing and hanging out the dish-towels, in eleven and a
half minutes that evening, Sylvia remembered.
Then she and Judith went to sit on the porch on the little bench Mother
had made them. They tried to see who could catch the first glimpse of
the evening star every evening. Mother was putting Buddy to bed and
Father was starting the breakfast cereal cooking on the stove. After a
while he went into the living-room and began to play something on the
piano, something full of deep, swaying chords that lifted Sylvia's heart
up and down as though she were floating on the water. The air was full
of the moist fragrance of spring. When the music held its breath for a
moment you could hear the bedtime note of sleepy birds in the oaks.
Judith, who did not care much for music, began to get sleepy and
leaned all her soft, warm weight against her big sister. Sylvia for the
first time in her life was consciously aware of being very happy. When,
some time later, the evening star shone out through the trees, she drew
a long breath. "See, Judith," she cried softly and began to recite,
"Star-light, star-bright, First star I've seen tonight--"
She stopped short--it was Aunt Victoria who had taught her that poem,
the last time she had come to see them, a year ago, the time when she
had brought Sylvia the pink silk dress, the only dress-up dress with lace
and ribbons on it Sylvia had had up to that time. As suddenly as the
evening star had shone out, another radiant vision flashed across
Sylvia's mind, Aunt Victoria, magnificent in her lacy dress, her golden
hair shining under the taut silk of her parasol, her white, soft fingers
gleaming with rings, her air of being a condescending goddess, visiting
mortals ...
After a time Mother stepped out on the porch and said, "Oh, quick,
children, wish on the shooting star."
Judith had dropped asleep like a little kitten tired of play, and Sylvia
looked at her mother blankly. "I didn't see any shooting star," she said.

Mother was surprised. "Why, your face was pointed right up at the
spot."
"I didn't see it," repeated Sylvia.
Mother fixed her keen dark eyes on Sylvia. "What's the matter?" she
asked in her voice that always required an answer. Sylvia wriggled
uncomfortably. Hers was a nature which suffers under the categorical
question; but her mother's was one which presses them home.
"What's the matter with you?" she said again.
Sylvia turned a clouded face to her mother. "I was wondering why it's
not nice to be idyllic."
"What?" asked her mother, quite at a loss. Sylvia was having one of her
unaccountable notions.
Sylvia went to lean on her mother's knee, looking with troubled eyes up
into the kind, attentive, uncomprehending face. "Why, the last time
Aunt Victoria was here--that long time ago--when they were all out
playing ball--she looked round and round at everything--at your dress
and mine and the furniture--you know--the--the uncomfortable way she
does sometimes--and she said, 'Well, Sylvia--nobody can say that your
parents aren't leading you a very idyllic life.'"
Mother laughed out. Her rare laugh was too sudden and loud to be very
musical, but it was immensely infectious, like a man's hearty mirth. "I
didn't hear her say it--but I can imagine that she did. Well, what of it?
What if she did?"
For once Sylvia did not respond to another's mood. She continued
anxiously, "Well,