He liked Miss Whimple's direct manner of speech and her habit of insisting upon answers to her determined questioning. It was in answer to her demand that he gave the story of his experiences as a rent collector, and he gave it well. He started out easily enough, but was quick to see that she was following him with keen interest; he noticed, too, that the maid had ceased altogether the "clearing away" process, and was standing by her mistress, listening with shining eyes and mouth slightly open. Their interest thrilled him, it mattered not that the audience numbered only two—it was to him as though nothing in the world mattered but the recital of his story in such a manner as that those two should live it with him. He rose as the recital proceeded and paced the floor, using the chairs occasionally to indicate the positions of himself or some of the others who had played their parts. And the women laughed and applauded, or murmured words of sympathy and understanding as the tale proceeded. It came to an end somewhat abruptly, William suddenly embarrassed, half ashamed, altogether shy, longing to get out of the house and back to the office. "And that's all," he ended curtly.
"And did Mrs. Moriarity say anything when she kissed you?" asked Miss Whimple slyly. William blushed—he did not often feel so hot and uncomfortable at a mere question. He felt a sudden rush of anger at himself for blushing, and some annoyance at Miss Whimple as the cause of it, and it was only after she had repeated the question that he answered, "Yes—she—she—says, 'God bless ye, darlint.'"
They allowed him to go finally, but it was only after Miss Whimple had exacted from him a promise that he would bring Pete and the other young members of the Turnpike family to spend a Saturday afternoon with her.
The maid accompanied him to the door, and stood watching him as he walked down the path towards the gate. William noticed that the grass-cutting operations had brought the maid's husband closer to the house. "John," said the maid, "ye'll nae be needin' tae stop the laddie wi' ony of yer fulish questions. If there's onything to tell aboot him, I'll tell it."
The man looked at her sharply, and William, as he passed him, said softly, "Gee! but you married men have the hard times." And he ducked in time to avoid a good-sized piece of wood that the man hurled at him.
CHAPTER XI
William was not long in fulfilling his promise to Miss Whimple to take his younger brothers and sisters up to spend a Saturday afternoon at her house. His mother started early on the task of getting them ready, and spent an anxious hour keeping them clean and tidy until William arrived from the office and "cleaned up." She watched them, with pride and tenderness on her face, as they departed, Bessie and Joey, aged six and four years respectively, in front, where, as William put it, he could "keep an eye on 'em;" William and Pete, with Dolly, the baby, two years old, toddling along between them. As a shepherd, William herded them by street car and on foot, until they reached the Whimple house. Miss Whimple was at the gate to meet them. "Here's the bunch, Miss Whimple," he said smilingly, and then contrived to get in an aside to Pete, "Now you mind what I said about behavin' or I'll knock your block off when we gets away."
The youngsters were timid and shy. They hung to William closely for a while, with hazy notions only of what to do with themselves, and from sheer embarrassment rebuffing the kindly advances of Miss Whimple and the maid. They began to feel more at home when Miss Whimple suggested a tour of the grounds, and a visit to the barn to see the cows, two fine Jerseys, and presently they began to talk to her and to one another with freedom, all but Dolly. Miss Whimple, who was greatly taken with the little toddler, noticed that William was particularly tender toward her, his hands were ever ready to lift her, or guide her over rough ground, he suited his steps to hers when she walked, and all the time he kept up a running fire of baby talk. Dolly was all dimples and smiles; she seemed to be perfectly happy and contented, but she made no sound. It was some time before Miss Whimple noticed this, and when she said to the little one, "Such a little pet, I'll warrant you talk a lot to your mammy though," Dolly smiled at her and then turned to William her wonderful brown eyes full of questioning. William smiled back, "She likes oo, Dolly," he said softly, and then looked at Miss Whimple, his eyes moist, his lips trembling a little. He tried to speak, but could not find words. But Miss Whimple understood. Her hands went to her breast. "Oh—" she murmured, "I—I—didn't understand, William, I—I——" Down on her knees she went near one of the flower beds, pulled therefrom a rose, and, with the tears streaming, pinned the flower to Dolly's dress, saying half to herself, "Deaf and dumb—deaf and dumb—poor little mite. God bless you—and—help you."
Thereafter she made Dolly her special care, and the child seemed to like it, making occasional dashes on to the lawn to join William and the others, whose restraint having passed were playing with joyous zest, under the direction of the elder brother.