During the glamors of early love, if there be a creature more deadly than the little brother of a budding woman, that creature is the little sister of a budding man. The little brother at least tells in the open all he knows, often at full power of his lungs, and even that may be avoided, since he is wax in the hands of bribery; but the little sister is more apt to save her knowledge for use upon a terrible occasion; and, no matter what bribes she may accept, she is certain to tell her mother everything. All in all, a young lover should arrange, if possible, to be the only child of elderly parents; otherwise his mother and sister are sure to know a great deal more about him than he knows that they know.
This was what made Jane's eyes so disturbing to William during lunch that day. She ate quietly and competently, but all the while he was conscious of her solemn and inscrutable gaze fixed upon him; and she spoke not once. She could not have rendered herself more annoying, especially as William was trying to treat her with silent scorn, for nothing is more irksome to the muscles of the face than silent scorn, when there is no means of showing it except by the expression. On the other hand, Jane's inscrutability gave her no discomfort whatever. In fact, inscrutability is about the most comfortable expression that a person can wear, though the truth is that just now Jane was not really inscrutable at all.
She was merely looking at William and thinking of Mr. Parcher.
IX
LITTLE SISTERS HAVE BIG EARS
The confidential talk between mother and daughter at noon was not the last to take place that day. At nightfall—eight o'clock in this pleasant season—Jane was saying her prayers beside her bed, while her mother stood close by, waiting to put out the light.
“An' bless mamma and papa an'—” Jane murmured, coming to a pause. “An'—an' bless Willie,” she added, with a little reluctance.
“Go on, dear,” said her mother. “You haven't finished.”
“I know it, mamma,” Jane looked up to say. “I was just thinkin' a minute. I want to tell you about somep'm.”
“Finish your prayers first, Jane.”
Jane obeyed with a swiftness in which there was no intentional irreverence. Then she jumped into bed and began a fresh revelation.
“It's about papa's clo'es, mamma.”
“What clothes of papa's? What do you mean, Jane?” asked Mrs. Baxter, puzzled.
“The ones you couldn't find. The ones you been lookin' for 'most every day.”
“You mean papa's evening clothes?”
“Yes'm,” said Jane. “Willie's got 'em on.”
“What!”
“Yes, he has!” Jane assured her with emphasis. “I bet you he's had 'em on every single evening since Miss Pratt came to visit the Parchers! Anyway, he's got 'em on now, 'cause I saw 'em.”
Mrs. Baxter bit her lip and frowned. “Are you sure, Jane?”
“Yes'm. I saw him in 'em.”
“How?”
“Well, I was in my bare feet after I got undressed—before you came up-stairs—mamma, an' I was kind of walkin' around in the hall—”
“You shouldn't do that, Jane.”
“No'm. An' I heard Willie say somep'm kind of to himself, or like deckamation. He was inside his room, but the door wasn't quite shut. He started out once, but he went back for somep'm an' forgot to, I guess. Anyway, I thought I better look an' see what was goin' on, mamma. So I just kind of peeked in—”
“But you shouldn't do that, dear,” Mrs. Baxter said, musingly. “It isn't really quite honorable.”
“No'm. Well, what you think he was doin'?” (Here Jane's voice betrayed excitement and so did her eyes.) “He was standin' up there in papa's clo'es before the lookin'-glass, an' first he'd lean his head over on one side, an' then he'd lean it over on the other side, an' then he'd bark, mamma.”
“He'd what?”
“Yes'm!” said Jane. “He'd give a little, teeny BARK, mamma—kind of like a puppy, mamma.”
“What?” cried Mrs. Baxter.
“Yes'm, he did!” Jane asserted. “He did it four or five times. First he'd lean his head way over on his shoulder like this—look, mamma!—an' then he'd lean it way over the other shoulder, an' every time he'd do it he'd bark. 'Berp-werp!' he'd say, mamma, just like that, only not loud at all. He said, 'Berp-werp! BERP-WERP-WERP!' You could tell he meant it for barkin', but it wasn't very good, mamma. What you think he meant, mamma?”
“Heaven knows!” murmured the astonished mother.
“An' then,” Jane continued, “he quit barkin' all of a sudden, an' didn't lean his head over any more, an' commenced actin' kind of solemn, an' kind of whispered to himself. I think he was kind of pretendin' he was talkin' to Miss Pratt, or at a party, maybe. Anyways, he spoke out loud after while not just exactly LOUD, I mean, but anyway so's 't I could hear what he said. Mamma—he said, 'Oh, my baby-talk lady!' just like that, mamma. Listen, mamma, here's the way he said it: 'Oh, my baby-talk lady!'”
Jane's voice, in this impersonation, became sufficiently soft and tremulous to give Mrs. Baxter a fair idea of the tender yearning of the original. “'OH, MY BABY-TALK LADY!'” cooed the terrible Jane.
“Mercy!” Mrs. Baxter exclaimed. “Perhaps it's no wonder Mr. Parcher—” She broke off abruptly, then inquired, “What did he do next, Jane?”
“Next,” said Jane, “he put the light out, an' I had to—well, I just waited kind of squeeged up against the wall, an' he never saw me. He went on out to the back stairs, an' went down the stairs tiptoe, mamma. You know what I think, mamma? I think he goes out that way an' through the kitchen on account of papa's clo'es.”
Mrs. Baxter paused, with her hand upon the key of the shaded electric lamp. “I suppose so,” she said. “I think perhaps—” For a moment or two she wrapped herself in thought. “Perhaps”—she repeated, musingly—“perhaps we'll keep this just a secret between you and me for a little while, Jane, and not say anything to papa about the clothes. I don't think it will hurt them, and I suppose Willie feels they give him a great advantage over the other boys—and papa uses them so very little, especially since he's grown a wee bit stouter. Yes, it will be our secret, Jane. We'll think it over till to-morrow.”
“Yes'm.”
Mrs. Baxter turned out the light, then came and kissed Jane in the dark. “Good night, dear.”
“G' night, mamma.” But as Mrs. Baxter reached the door Jane's voice was heard again.
“Mamma?”
“Yes?” Mrs. Baxter paused.
“Mamma,” Jane said, slowly, “I think—I think Mr. Parcher is a very nice man. Mamma?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Mamma, what do you s'pose Willie barked at the lookin'-glass for?”
“That,”