It was not until she was back in the house again, washing her earth-stained hands that Persis felt comfortable. Nobody was going to find that again. Still, she had to fight down a small stir of curiosity. A fan which was not a fan—what had been its purpose? She was sure that the design on the end sticks had been exactly the same—the staring, enigmatic cats with their opal eyes giving them almost the look of life. She had just hung up the towel when she heard a stir in the silent house for the first time. Mrs. Pryor came in, her usual calm expression gone. Even several strands of hair had loosened at the back of her neck in a way which made her look more abandoned even than if she had allowed the whole mass (which Persis was sure was neatly pinned over a roll of padding) to stream free.
“The Captain—” She hesitated just within the door, her fingers twisting together over the sample spread of her apron, her face less pink than usual. “Signals from the ship—the Captain has been injured!”
“Captain Leverett? Are they bringing him ashore?”
“Yes, yes—we must be ready—”
Persis was already on her way. “Into his own room,” she said firmly. “I will move my things. If you do not mind I can use Uncle Augustin’s chamber.”
“Of course,” but Mrs. Pryor seemed hardly to hear her. She had unslung the ring of keys which she wore at her waist as her badge of office and was heading toward a tall cupboard on the left. “Hammond has gone for Dr. Veering—Hurt—never before—” But Persis judged that she was talking to herself now.
She herself sped down the hall and up the stairs. Once in the chamber she caught armloads of clothing Molly had labored to freshen and carried them across the hall, to dump them on the bed there. Her trunk— they would have to bring that later. She grabbed at brush, comb, mirror, and a bottle of toilet water which had miraculously ridden through the ordeal of the Arrow wrapped in three petticoats. Uncle Augustin’s watch from the bedside table-
Just as she looked around to be sure she had forgotten nothing, Sukie came in, her arms laded with fresh bed linen and, behind her, Lydia. It was a much subdued Lydia, lacking that light malice which so often marked her face to give her such a discontented expression.
“I can’t believe it—Crewe—!” she burst out. “If it’s bad —” She bit her lip. “Crewe isn’t one to take chances— ever—and— Not Crewe!” She gave a short wail, but as she did so Mrs. Pryor stalked in, behind her a second maid carried a pile of torn linen suitable for bandages, and small pots with oiled paper tied over their tops for lids.
“Don’t you take on, Miss Lydia!” she said sharply. “Dr. Veering is on his way.”
“Crewe—” Lydia was shaking throughout her body, and Persis, seeing how she might help, put her arm around the girl’s shoulder and drew her across the hall to that place of greater confusion where she had dumped all her possessions without thought.
“You have to have faith,” Persis said. “And he’s an excellent seaman, you know that.” It was awkward for her to find words and she began embarrassedly to fold up underlinen.
Lydia’s hand went out to smooth the full skirt of a tumbled dress. She did not look up.
“Crewe’s always just—just been there,” she said with a catch in her voice. “I could depend on Crewe.”
“And you will continue to do so,” returned Persis briskly, with a confidence she was not sure of.
7
But Crewe Leverett was not all right, nor was he a good patient. Where Uncle Augustin had withdrawn into a silent world of endurance without vocal complaint after his seizure, always polite, but remoter than ever to those who cared for his bodily needs (as if he himself had disowned that body at times), the Captain proved impatient and demanding. And his injuries were not light ones. He had a broken shoulder, two cracked ribs, and a slight case of concussion, gained during his efforts to save a Dutch brig piled up not far from where the Arrow had met its fate earlier.
Dr. Veering was able to keep him under the influence of opiates for the first hours after the shoulder was strapped and the ribs set. But even in his drugged sleep his voice would ring out suddenly in some sharp order. It was plain though he lay in his bed he was back in spirit on the brig. They had not been able to save the ship as they had the Arrow, though his men, under the mate, Lan Harvery, had managed to secure half the crew (those who had not been swept overboard at the first crash) and perhaps a third of the cargo, which was now piled below on the same wharf which had earlier held that taken from the Arrow.
Lydia provided no help in the sick room. Apparently the fact that Crewe was liable to the same dangers met by other wreckers came as a shock to his sister. And, Persis, remembering her own confusion and dismay when Uncle Augustin had suddenly changed from the dominate head of the household to an invalid, thought she knew how the other girl felt.
Save that he had not indulged Lydia’s desire to travel it was plain that Crewe had done all he could to make his sister’s life pleasant and without care. If she had learned any household duties in her Charleston school, such skills had long since vanished from her mind. So she proved awkwardly inept in the sick room. Somehow, without any discussion about the matter, it was Persis and Molly who backed Mrs. Pryor in the care of the Captain.
And, once he had regained consciousness, he was the most difficult of charges, demanding that, since Veering would not allow him out of bed, various of his crew and the islanders he employed be summoned to receive their orders. Until Dr. Veering rebelled and said that Crewe Leverett might command at sea, but the sick room was his quarterdeck and he would have no more of this going in and out.
That the Captain was running a fever Persis knew from her own observation whenever she came to bring Mrs. Pryor, who seldom left his side, some draft or herbal medication she had asked for. His face was so flushed that the red showed even beneath the brown weathering the sea had given his skin, and his eyes were far too bright. He seemed to wear a perpetual scowl of outrage, as if he could not yet believe that this had happened to him. And he only was quiet when under drugs, which worried Dr. Veering.
“It is the head wound,” Persis heard him tell Mrs. Pryor. “This continued excitability may have been caused by that. I have never known Crewe to be so unreasonable before. There may have been a slight fracture of the skull. But we must keep him quiet—that above all. Nothing to arouse him further.”
They divided their time so there was always one at watch in the room. Molly reported twice he had aroused and demanded to know—with words she would not repeat—what a strange female was doing by his bedside. And before she could answer he slipped away from consciousness again.
It was the early morning of the second day that Persis took her place in the chair which faced the bed, dismissing Molly and Mrs. Pryor to get the rest they needed. A single candle burned as the day without was still only the faintest gray streak across the sky. And, though the netting veiled him somewhat, she found herself studying his face, hoping that she was right in her guess that he was sleeping more naturally and that the fever was going down.
He was wedged in with pillows so that he could not inadvertently roll onto his injured side. But now and then his head turned on the higher pillow behind him as if he could so shake off some fragment of an unpleasant dream, and that scowl seemed to have permanently creased his forehead.
There was a bristle of pale stubble across his chin, cheeks, and upper lip, but he slept with his mouth closed. And, in spite of his scowl, Persis began to realize that Crewe Leverett might be termed a fine figure of a man. The stiffness of their last interview had left him; he looked younger, less foreboding.
His head turned again and she saw his tongue tip travel over his lips. Quietly she arose and went to the bed table. As she had seen Mrs. Pryor do many times the last two days, she dipped the edge of a small linen towel into a basin of water and, parting the netting, she stooped to wipe his face with the damp cloth. Not once but several times. He sighed and half-opened his eyes.