Persis got to her feet. Her body was clammy with sweat, her night rail clung to shoulders and thighs, as she moved, with the wavering steps of someone who has been a long time ill and was trying to walk again for the first time, to the chest of drawers.
Into that she pushed the mock fan, pulled the clothing over it. Her mouth was dry; she longed for a glass of water. And when she went back toward the window her hands were shaking so that not all her power of will could still them. Once more she looked out into the night.
There was a torch below now. Against the dazzlement of that light she saw a hunched shape. And there was something wrong with the outline of the head.
That turned, so it was plain in profile against the torchlight. It—it was one of the priests! One of the animal-headed ones who had awaited the sacrifice. Persis blinked and blinked again.
No, there was no canoe. Just a single torch. And she was not on the mound of her dreams, rather in a house which used its remains for a base. The torch disappeared. But surely that had been no human face she had caught a glimpse of—
There was no sound now but a distant wash of waves, the sigh of wind outside. She was oddly free. All she had sensed—in her dream—and in her awakening to find the treacherous fan close at hand—was gone. Also—she felt suddenly sleepy as one does who is drained of all strength or who has been drugged.
She stumbled back to the bed, one small fear still stirring in her. To sleep might mean to dream again. She must not let that happen—she must not! But her weighted eyelids closed against all her determination.
If she dreamed again it was not so vividly, nor could she remember any of it, when she struggled out of that pit of unconsciousness the next morning. However, the face she looked up into was not Molly’s usual round features with their ever-slight flush, but rather Sukie’s browned features.
The island maid set down a covered cup on the small bedside table, her eyes more for that duty than for Persis who hunched forward on her pillows, coming fully awake at this surprise at the change in routine she had known for so many years.
“Where’s Molly?” she demanded almost too sharply. Sukie glanced at her sideways as if she did not quite like to be where she was. Persis had never noticed her much before, now she was a little repelled by the girl’s harsh features. She must be of mixed blood as many of the islanders were. But the jut of her nose which looked out of proportion with the rest of her face was reminiscent of Askra’s. Perhaps she did have some remote strain of the archaic blood of the people who had built the mound. The mound—Persis battled down her vivid memory of that dream.
“She’s ailin’. Stayed in bed.” Sukie sounded sullen. Perhaps she resented having to take over new duties.
“Ailing!” But Molly was never sick. In all the years the maid had seen Persis herself through the ordeals of measles, colds, and a lengthy bout of fever (which did not, thank God, turn out to be smallpox as had first been feared) Molly herself had been a tower of strength.
Persis scrambled out of bed, thrust her feet into her slippers, and grabbed the wrapper from where it lay across a chair. With her hair still in the braids Molly herself had made last night, she was already on her way to the door.
She heard Sukie say something she did not wait to catch, instead she headed for that second flight of stairs, hurrying to them with only the care of catching up the front of her wrapper so it would not trip her.
A few moments later she was in Molly’s room, just in time to support her head as the maid retched miserably into the slop pail, runnels of sweat on her cheeks from the thick beads gathering on her forehead.
The attack over, Persis eased her back on her pillows.
“Somethin’ I ate,” Molly got out between gasps of breath. Under Persis’ fingers on her wrists her pulse was laboring. “Please, Miss Persis—I—hurt—”
Her big hands pressed against her thick body just under her breasts and the eyes she turned on Persis begged for reassurance and comfort.
11
“A severe bout of indigestion,” Dr. Veering gave his verdict in a precise voice. “The eating of our raw fruit by those not accustomed to such fare has been known to produce just such symptoms. Your man has something of a like nature—”
“Shubal!” Persis broke in. “But how–”
“Mrs. Pryor heard him being ill in the night. I would advise a very light diet—say broth—perhaps a custard,” the doctor continued. “But I have given them both a draft, and do not offer them food until they ask for it. And how have you been feeling?” He peered at her with the intent he might have given to some plant he wished to classify—the closest and most measuring look Persis remembered ever having from him. “You do not look quite the thing yourself, Miss Rooke.”
“I had a nightmare,” Persis replied. “But you are sure—about Molly and Shubal? Molly has never been ill that I can remember.”
Dr. Veering shrugged. “Such a history does not guarantee she never will, you know. But I would say that the worst is over. She and your manservant need the rest—and then judicious feeding up. Leave it to Mrs. Pryor, she has had much experience with such indispositions.”
But when the doctor had left the room, Molly’s head moved on the pillow, her eyes looked wide and frightened.
“It ain’t like he said, Miss Persis,” her voice was weak but urgent. “We didn’t eat any food that wasn’t served to the family. We—we was overlooked!”
“Overlooked?” Persis could not understand.
“It was done a-purpose, Miss Persis. Me, I’d swear m’dyin’ oath to that.”
“Poison!” Persis stared back at the maid, completely confounded.
“Not bad enough to kill us maybe.” Molly’s face looked very wan, even her full cheeks seemed to have collapsed into wrinkled folds. “To keep us abed—maybe away from you.”
“That is silly!” Persis retorted more sharply than she meant to. “We’re not in any danger. Molly, it is impossible and don’t you dare say anything to Mrs. Pryor like that! We’re guests here and not prisoners.”
The maid reached out her hand and caught at a fold of Persis’ skirt as the girl got to her feet.
“There ain’t no way of us gettin’ off this island, less they help us. And there’s that witch woman hangin’ around. Mam Rose said as how in the old days they killed people—sent ’em out, as they said, as messengers to their old heathen gods. The Captain, he’s let that Askra come here and call upon those gods. She was a-doin’ that last night. I heard her, Miss Persis. How do we know that she didn’t want to send us somewheres—we being strangers an’ no one carin’ ’bout us here? She knows herbs—she could—”
“Was she in the kitchen when the cooking was going on?” Persis demanded. Molly’s wild idea had a kind of crazy logic. She remembered, in spite of all her efforts, her own terrible night—the dreams—and finally watching the torch held by the masked figure disappear into the thick vegetation below.
“I wasn’t in the kitchen all the time, Miss Persis. How would I know? Only all them others—Mam Rose, Sukie, the rest, they steer a wide path around her and they’re afraid of her. They say she has powers—”
Molly grew more animated as she talked, as if the need for making an impression on Persis gave her the strength she had lost during her bouts of nausea.
“Was you sick last night, Miss Persis?”
Could one call those vivid dreams a kind of sickness, Persis wondered. But she refused to allow fancy to stray so far.
“No. I just had a couple of bad dreams,” she returned shortly and positively. “Now, Molly, you heard what the doctor said—eating unusual food can bring about the reaction you, and apparently Shubal, have had. We are strangers here and are unaccustomed to some of the fruit.”
“It was done—a-purpose, Miss Persis, you’ll see—it was done with a purpose.” Molly settled her head back on her pillow. “Jus’ you watch out good. There’s somethin’ mighty queer happenin’ here. I ain’t one to go seein’ what ain’t
solid an’ what I can’t touch, but now I have a bad feelin’ ’bout this place, Miss Persis. Seems like we’d better get away as soon as we can.”
“Yes,” to that Persis could agree. She smoothed the bed cover and moved the shutter of the near window so the hot beam of the sun would not touch Molly’s wan face. “I promise you, Molly, that’s just what we’re going to do.”
But that the illness of the only two she could completely trust under this roof had been planned—that was too wild to even consider. She paid a visit to Shubal and found him asleep, his face against the pillow carrying a greater appearance of age than she had ever seen. But Shubal was old—nearly able to match Uncle Augustin in years. As long as his master had been alive one had not been so aware of that. It was as if his constant preoccupation with Uncle Augustin’s needs and desires had so filled his life that even age could not threaten him. Only now that that occupation was gone he had nothing to fill the void and was so empty he was only a fading shell of a man. She must keep appealing for his help, let him see that he would be, was, of use still—that she must have his aid. That, Persis thought, might give him a new lease on life—or at least she could hope so.
She met Mrs. Pryor as she came down into the second hallway. The housekeeper had just come out of Captain Leverett’s chamber and there was a kind of quiet triumph on her face as she exhibited a tray on which only used dishes remained—no sign of food.
“He made a good breakfast,” she greeted Persis. “And he threw a saucer at the houseboy when he would not help him to do more than sit up with a second pillow.” She appeared to believe that a most encouraging sign. “He might be glad of a little company, Miss Rooke, if you are wishful to offer it.”
“Perhaps after a while.” Captain Leverett was no longer her problem, Molly and Shubal were. “My servants—”
“Ah, yes, Dr. Veering told me. It is not unusual, Miss Rooke. I have seen such upsets from a change in diet many times. We have had other shipwrecked guests and a number of them have suffered so. The results are only temporary. I assure you. And I have a good stock broth ready. Perhaps later in the day they will fancy that. There is nothing better for the return of strength. You, yourself, have had no difficulties?”
Persis shook her head. “None. I did not sleep well. There was a sound—like singing—or chanting—”
Mrs. Pryor’s lips pinched together. “Yes. It is a time of some ceremony for Askra. The Captain has given her full permission to follow her own ways here. We are lucky in times of Indian troubles—and mainly because this Key and Askra make the Seminoles uneasy. They say they defeated the Old Ones, but they believe that their ghosts linger here and are reluctant to face them. Askra has been of great service in furthering that belief—which is a true one as far as she is concerned. She is a very strange person with knowledge which comes from another time and another people. And perhaps those descended from the ancient enemies of her own clan have good reason to be afraid of that knowledge.”
Mrs. Pryor had always been so sensible that her present words made an even deeper impression on Persis. Perhaps there was something about this house, the mound, Lost Lady Key which could make the improbable seem possible. Persis remembered again her alarms of the night, but those were only dreams. Except—
She made some answer to Mrs. Pryor which she hoped was civil and went quickly to her own chamber. Kneeling by the chest of drawers she searched. There it lay in truth—the fan dagger. How could Mrs. Pryor answer this appearance? Was it put there as a warning, or a threat? But why would either be aimed at her? Swiftly she pushed the petticoats back into place over it. Somehow she did not want to ask anyone here any questions concerning it. She just wanted to forget she had ever seen it at all.
But try as she would to exile the thought of it, it still intruded into her mind as she ate with Lydia and Mrs. Pryor later. They were not yet through the meal when the braying of the conch horn—which Persis had come to associate now with the sighting of a ship—broke the silence which had held the three of them. Lydia, for one, appeared half-asleep—as if she had spent no better a night than had Persis—and Mrs. Pryor was apparently deep in some problem to do with the household.
The shell horn brought Lydia in tautly alert. And Persis could not help but wonder if Ralph Grillon, knowing that Captain Leverett was confined to his chamber, would dare once more to brazenly and openly visit the Key. But Sukie came in to relay the message that it was the mail packet which had been sighted.
Now it was Persis’ turn to take full notice. The mail packet—her own chance of getting on to Key West. For a moment she relished the thought of such escape. Then she remembered Molly and Shubal. Knowing the rigors of their trip from New York, she could not condemn either of the servants to a further sea voyage until they were well again and she could not venture alone, But perhaps the visit of the very welcome ship which was a tie with civilization as she knew it would be in port here long enough to make sure of their recovery—It was Mrs. Pryor who put an end to that small hope.
“They will take off some of the men of the Arrow if they will. Though, Captain Fosdick does not take kindly to crowding. At least he can carry news to Key West and perhaps the owners will make provision for another ship to pick them up here.”
“They will take a letter?” Persis held on to her second hope. She had written to Mr. Hogue on the night of her uncle’s burial—asked him, if possible, to recommend a lawyer in Key West—though she was not sure he would know of any trustworthy man.
“The Captain will have the mail bag; he has his own affairs concerning the Arrow to settle.”
“And it will be long enough before he sails himself again,” Lydia said. “He won’t care much about having to delegate duties to others.” She was smiling as if the thought of her brother’s irritation pleased her in some way.
“I’ll get my letter.” Persis could not sit any longer waiting. Even to send the missive off to Mr. Hogue would be some small satisfaction. Also, she could certainly ask Captain Pettigrew to make inquiries for her. Perhaps if the Captain was preparing to leave she must do that first!
Excusing herself, she hurried to her chamber for the broad-brimmed bonnet which she had found was her best protection against the sun. And took from her small lap desk the letter she had written to Mr. Hogue. She could leave that with Captain Leverett and then walk down to the “hotel” and search out Captain Pettigrew.
Rapping on the chamber door confronting hers, she heard a muffled voice from within giving her permission to enter. But when she came into the room she found Captain Pettigrew there also, standing beside the bed while Captain Leverett sorted through some papers the other had spread out before him.
“I’m sorry—” She was disconcerted at breaking in upon what appeared to be a business conference. But Captain Leverett was already single-handedly shuffling the papers together rather clumsily and holding them out to his companion.
“There is something I can do for you, Miss Rooke? But first I fear I have a disappointment for you. The Annie B. will not accept female passengers. I know Captain Fosdick and he has no accommodations for ladies on board. So I am afraid that you will have to stay with us a little while longer. Now if it had been the Swallow, which we were half-expecting—”
“I could not go anyway—now.” Persis was so intent upon what she must do she brushed aside his explanation. “Both Molly and Shubal are ill. I would not go and leave them. But I do have a letter,” she produced it as well as her netted purse in which was the small sum of money left from her last housekeeping allowance. “This must go to Uncle Augustin’s lawyer—in New York. And,” now she turned to Captain Pettigrew, “you are going to Key West?”
He nodded, his square-cut, gray-salted beard wagging up and down.
“Have to, Miss Rooke. Have to get in touch with the owners. We might have saved the Arrow—but that last blow—” He shook his head. “That nigh ripped the bottom out of her. She’s only good for firewood now.”
“Then
if you will do me a service, sir, I shall be greatly in your debt. I am told there are reputable lawyers in the town; find me one who is reliable so that I may discover more of my uncle’s affairs in the islands. I have been given to understand that I may face difficulties there.”
The Captain bowed awkwardly. “That I will do surely, Miss Rooke. You’ll have a message back when we send for the rest of the crew—this Annie B. will only ship four of us. I’m leaving Mr. Wilkinson, my mate, in charge here. He’ll be glad to give you a hand if you need it—” Now he looked back at Captain Leverett. “He was on the China run a while back and knows how to handle pirates. If you have the arms, my crew will back you in any trouble with the Indians.”
“Well enough,” Captain Leverett said. He had taken Persis’ letter and was stowing it away with others into a stained bag. “Take this out with you to the Annie B. The boatmen will bring back any they have for the island.”
“Wait,” Persis was busy freeing the ring closing her purse. “There is postage due. To go to New York—”
Captain Leverett shook his head. “We have a yearly contract with the mailboats. They come seldom enough to make a good profit—and we might as well use up all the surplus we can. Keep your money, Miss Rooke.”
She could not keep on urging him. But she disliked being again beholden to him for even so small a matter. However, when she turned toward the door, he spoke again with his usual to-be-obeyed tone of voice:
“If you will wait for a moment, Miss Rooke. Well, Pettigrew, that finishes it. You can turn that claim over to the court in Key West and send the copy to your owners. I’m plagued sorry we had the second blow—we could have gotten your ship afloat if it hadn’t been for that. But there’s a full description of what happened for the claims court, and I cannot see how you or your crew can be faulted in any way.”