Lydia was certainly linked with Ralph Grillon and determined to go her own way in spite of any restraint her brother tried to provide. She had been shrewd in her quick appraisal of what might lie behind his suggestion of shell hunting. Persis determined that she would play no part at all in the intrigues existing between the Bahamian and her hostess. If Crewe Leverett wanted a watchdog for his sister, let him look to his own household for such a one.
“No-”
Persis swung hastily back to the bed. Was Molly fast in another nightmare?
The maid’s eyes were closed; Persis was sure she was asleep, but her hands moved back and forth across the light sheet which covered her body.
“Safe—safe—” she repeated the words as if trying to reassure herself of something. “Must have dropped it when the bed was made. But the lock—it is safe—”
Persis came again to the side of the bed. There was so much uneasiness in those gabbled words that she felt she must discover the source of this new troubling dream.
“Molly,” she spoke softly, “what is safe?”
“The portfolio.” To Persis’ surprise the maid answered as if she were awake and fully cognizant of what she said. “It was on the floor. But now—it is safe. Must have fallen out when the bed was made—the only way—”
The portfolio! Persis had half-forgotten she had given that to Molly for safekeeping.
She slipped her hand now under the upper narrow featherbed, groping for the familiar feel of the leather. With Molly ill it was best she took it in charge again. Her fingers closed on the edge of the leather and she drew it slowly to her, taking care not to disturb the sleeper.
“Safe?” Somehow that one word held the note of a plea.
Persis clasped the portfolio tight against her. She leaned closer and said, hoping that her assurance would reach the other’s mind no matter how deeply guarded by slumber:
“Safe, entirely safe, Molly.”
The sleeper sighed, her head turned on the pillow, away from the girl. And as Persis watched her closely it was apparent that the maid was now deep asleep, as if her nightmare had so worn out her energy that she must rest to make up for what the fear had done to her. Persis began to go over the papers—the will, the letters, the depositions from the two privateersmen who witnessed the death of James Rooke in the sea battle. Everything was present. Only she could not now believe that they had not been searched for— read-
Why? To her knowledge no one under this roof, save herself, Molly, and Shubal had any interest in Uncle Augustin’s affairs. Ralph Grillon’s story—had some servant secretly in his employ made a report, giving him that ammunition he had used to try and force his bargain on her? That seemed very fantastic, like some strange device of a novelist. But that the papers had been perused, perhaps for a second time, Persis somehow had no doubt at all.
Where could she hide them? Or need she hide them again? If they had been inspected and left to her, there would be no reason to try to protect them now. She longed to awaken Molly fully and ask her more concerning what she had murmured about the portfolio. But she could not do that.
Persis found it hard to sit still. What she had always been told was her greatest fault of character possessed her, growing stronger by the minute—her impatience. She wanted to plunge into action, to do something. Only reflection kept saying, “What?” And to that she had no answer. There was no one under this roof to whom she could go with her questions, her—her imaginings. But she felt haunted by something which she tried to tell herself was merely the result of her disturbed night—by the impression that just beyond the edge of her comprehension, forces were in action which vitally affected her but which she could not understand.
There was Crewe Leverett. Oddly her thoughts kept coming back to him. But what utter stupidity it would be to pour out to him two—no, three dreams (counting Molly’s)—and the fact that she believed, without adequate proof, that her private papers had been twice rifled. And she wanted no interference from an outsider.
There had always been Uncle Augustin. Now she understood fully how much she had depended upon him. Not that she could have gone to him with any dreams or fantasies either. She could guess what his response would have been to such vaporing on her part. But the responsibility he had left her—that she would not have needed to concern herself with.
Persis had always believed most firmly in her own judgment, her own strength of character. Had she done that just because such qualities had never been put to the test before? That question left her shaken, but she would not yield to it.
She had duties—to Uncle Augustin, who at the last had trusted her, whether forced by circumstance or no—to Molly and Shubal—and last of all, to herself. She must make decisions and steer them all into the future.
Molly was sleeping now, lying quietly and without any of the distress she had shown. Persis, still holding the portfolio to her, took a quick turn up and down the room. Above all, she wanted to get this to her own chamber again. She wanted a chance to think (if she could ever control the random dart of thoughts which now struck at her calm—or what should be her calm consideration of the future).
But she had promised to stay and Persis kept her promises. What if Molly slid once more into one of those nightmares and she was not here? What if—?
There was a faint tap on the door and Persis started as if she fully expected the menace which had earlier filled the darkness for her to enter. But it was Mrs. Pryor who opened the door very quietly, moved with firm purpose to the bed and rested her hand for a brief moment on the narrow bit of forehead showing below the ruffle of Molly’s nightcap. She nodded competently.
“The fever has broken, she is sleeping quite naturally,” she observed. She glanced at Persis as if she wondered what the girl was doing there.
“Molly—she had a very bad dream. I promised I would stay with her—wake her if it came again.”
There was very little expression on Mrs. Pryor’s face. If she thought Persis oversolicitous and even rather silly, she betrayed none of that conclusion. Instead she said something which the girl found remarkable, coming as it did from such a manifestly sensible woman.
“Dreams are very odd at times. But the herb tea she took might well have been the cause. Askra told me once that her tribe in the old days took a much stronger mixture of the same properties (that is, their wise men and women did) to induce visions. Only I have never used such proportions. But—yes, dreams can be most strange. I have heard of warnings which came in dreams and because they were not heeded, the dreamer later faced misfortune.”
She had not looked at Persis when she spoke. But was there a subtle warning in what she said? That was another question Persis dared not ask now. Meanwhile, Mrs. Pryor was continuing.
“You need not worry about her dreaming again, Miss Rooke. This is a very natural and deep sleep—not the kind which gives birth to such disturbing fancies. And,” for the first time she faced the girl squarely, “you look very tired. It is mainly our custom to rest during the early afternoon. I will have Sukie bring something light and tasty for you and then I would advise you to take such a rest.”
“But Molly—” Persis was torn between her own fatigue and her promise.
“I shall get my darning, Miss Rooke, and sit right here. It is cool with the sea breeze coming in. And you may rest assured I shall call you if anything occurs which needs your presence.”
There was such authority in that it was plainly a dismissal. To counter it might well awaken some suspicion. Reluctantly, Persis agreed. It was true that Molly seemed to be resting now without any unpleasant effects. But she stood by the bed watching her narrowly until Mrs. Pryor returned with a large drawstring bag. The housekeeper drew the chair a little closer to the window and settled herself as if perfectly willing to spend some time there.
Back in her own chamber Persis discovered that Sukie—or someone—had indeed left a covered tray on the bureau top. And after she had stowed the portfolio under her pillow, much as Molly had tucked the Bible she believed would keep her from evil, Persis lifted the napkin, realizing she was indeed very hungry.
There were some slices of cold roast chicken, cut a little thin, to be sure, but still enough. Also a plate of bread and butter with a small side dish of the jam made from some of the exotic fruit Dr. Veering brought from Verde Key for Mrs. Pryor to experiment with, and a custard, firm and lightly browned on top-just the way which would satisfy the stomach. There was also a small jug from which Persis poured what seemed to be a fruit drink.