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Maper, the proprietor of Holly Hall, was a mill-owner, a big-boned, kindly man, who derived his Catholicism from an Irish mother, and had therefore been pleased to find an Irish girl among the candidates for the post of companion to his wife. As he drove her from the station up the steep old wagon-road he explained the situation, in more than one sense.
Eileen burst into a laugh. "Oh, miss!" she said, mimicking the programme-girl. "Didn't you recognise me on the stage?" "Mary Murchison!" gasped the programme-girl. "Oh, Miss O'Keeffe, how wonderful! You nearly made my heart stop " "I am sorry, but I do want to take your bedroom. I've left Mrs. Maper, and you are not to ask any questions." "I haven't time, I'm late already.
I was never more than a phantom to you a boyish memory, and a bad one at that. Don't you know you gave me a pair of black eyes? Good-by: you'll marry a dear, sweet girl in white muslin who'll never know. God bless you." Sir Robert Maper simply could not get up on the Monday morning.
Even a single line of railway always appeared dismal to her; she liked the great junctions with their bewildering intertanglements, their possibilities of collision. And now that Lieutenant Doherty had faded away into Afghanistan and silence he did not even acknowledge the letter announcing her approaching marriage Robert Maper proved a useful substitute. One day Mr.
"I suppose you never had a drink of champagne in your life afore you come here," said Mrs. Maper, beamingly. And she indicated the port glass. "No, no, Lucy, don't play pranks on a stranger," her husband put in tactfully. "It's this glass, Miss O'Keeffe." "Oh, thank you!" Eileen gushed. "And this is what? Sherry?" "No, port," replied Mr. Maper, scarcely able to repress a wink.
"My head wouldn't stand them. I once went to that exhibition in London and I said to myself, never no more for this gal." "And you never did go any more since you were a girl?" asked the companion, with professional pointedness. "No, never no more," replied Mrs. Maper, serenely, "once is too often, as the gal said when the black man kissed her."
It was all she could do to hide her amusement from her entranced companion, and somehow this box at the theatre reminded her of the Convent room in which she used to sit listening to the pious readings anent infant prodigies. One afternoon it came upon her that here Mrs. Maper had learned her strange pump handle gestures.
I don't know the ways of the stage so I send you this as a sure way of reaching you to ask when and where I may have the pleasure of calling upon your friend, Miss O'Keeffe, and renewing the study of Plato. Robert Maper, Hotel Belgravia." "Any answer, miss?" said the imperturbable doorkeeper. The answer flashed irresistibly into her mind as he spoke. Oh, she would play up to Bob Maper.
The mirrored door of the rifled wardrobe stood ajar, revealing an enticing emptiness. Snatching up her handbag and her hat, she crept inside and closed the door noiselessly upon herself. "The wardrobe mouse," she thought, smiling. "Well, my lady!" Mrs. Maper dashed through the door, in her dinner-gown and diamonds, her forefinger hovering, balanced, between earth and heaven.
Eileen became interested in Robert Maper, for the old books he opened up to her were quite new and enlarging. She had imagined the Church replacing Paganism as light replaced darkness. Now she felt that it was only as gas replaced candle-light. The darkness was less Egyptian than the nuns insinuated. Plato in particular was a veritable chandelier.
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