Perkins made the same slight indefinite gesture. “I’m sorry I said that, madam, and it was foolish of me. It’s only my fancy and doesn’t mean anything. Perhaps it’s my way of filling up empty hours, and sometimes I say things without thinking. You surprised me, because Mrs. Thursby never asked me any questions like that.”
Miss Derrick pulled herself together. “Well, Perkins, perhaps you’re quite right, and it really doesn’t matter. I suppose it’s the strange house and the feeling of not being settled that makes one curious about all kinds of things. When you’ve had your tea please come up-stairs, and I’ll show you about the linen. Also I hope you’ll help me all you can to make matters go smoothly in the house, on account of Mr. Derrick’s writing. It’s important he should be disturbed as little as possible. And,” she added genially, “please don’t fill your head with fancies about never having been alone.”
CHAPTER II
PERKINS
MISS DERRICK left the room, and Perkins stood motionless as though she welcomed its silence. Her eyes took on a strange expression as she scanned this apartment, with every least detail of which she was utterly familiar. The paneling ran nearly to the ceiling, and was topped by a narrow shelf. The west wall was dominated by the fireplace, and in the corner, placed at a slight angle from the wall itself, was the big desk. Sitting there, one looked not out through the French window, but almost directly at the door from the main hall. The desk was already littered with Derrick’s manuscript, and toward it Perkins moved as in a dream.
She put one thin hand on the smooth leather surface, then bent over the massive frame, searching, it seemed, in the manner of one who hopes she may not find. Her attitude suggested that she had done this many times before, and always with the same result; but it did not affect the swift and silent touch with which she fingered the heavy mahogany corners and deep, carved molding of its intricate design. Presently she shook her head with a sort of patient resolution and turned on the portrait a look of extraordinary inquiry, as though Millicent’s eyes, peering from the pigment, could have directed her—if they only would. The picture might have been alive, so keen was her regard, so expectant of an answer.
Evening had drawn on, and the study became peopled with soft mysterious shadows in which she stood like a priestess before some half-veiled shrine. She made no movement toward the lamp but in the gloom progressed without a sound from point to point, with here and there a lingering touch to furniture and woodwork. These intimate caresses blended her the more completely with all that surrounded her till she was merged and absorbed into the bodily human presentment of wood and stone. Finally she came directly under the portrait, bent her head in an attitude of profound thought, and remained quite motionless. She was standing thus when the front hall door opened and Derrick’s whistle sounded cheerily outside.
At that the maid smiled to herself with sudden pleasure, crossed the room swiftly, and became occupied with the tea-tray. Derrick entered. He did not see her at first and started at a slight rattle of china.
“Jove, Perkins, you made me jump! I thought you were part of the room.”
She did not answer. He sent her a quick searching glance, stood by the mantel, and, taking out his pipe, watched her silently. How amazingly she fitted into everything! No, he could not imagine Beech Lodge without this woman.
“You will want to work now, sir?”