There was no possibility of questioning further that emphatic statement, Persis decided. Perhaps Molly had misunderstood the man on the wharf or he had been teasing her.
“Thank you for explaining,” she said contritely. “But I still feel it improper to keep the master of the house out of his own—”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Pryor was brisk. “He would feel it improper to have it otherwise. You can hear it from his own lips, if necessary.” There was a shadowing of offense in that which Persis was quick to note.
“No, your word is quite enough, Mrs. Pryor. And I thank you for it.”
The lady, who had been somewhat on her dignity, relaxed a little.
“You are very welcome, I am sure. By the way, Dr. Veering is to see your uncle this afternoon. If you have any questions to ask him, that will be an excellent time to do so.”
But those questions were never to be asked. For when Persis reentered the house it was to hear Shubal’s thin old voice raised loud enough to echo through the hallways.
“Miss Persis, oh, Miss Persis!”
She ran for the stairs, one hand on the banister to drag herself up there faster. The old servant stood in the door of her uncle’s room, his face gray-white with fear.
“Miss Persis-he-he-”
She pushed past Shubal. Her uncle rested half off the bed, his face as blanched as Shubal’s. One hand clutched the netting, which had torn in his grip. He looked at her, his eyes wild as she had never seen them before.
“Amos—traitor—Amos—!”
“I went for some water.” Shubal shuffled along to join her. “He was just lying quiet. I thought he was asleep. But—Miss Persis—he must have tried to get up— to get to the window—see?”
He pointed to a bedside table now tipped over on the floor, the candlestick hurled by the fall nearly into the middle of the room.
“Why would he get up, Miss Persis? What did he want?”
“I don’t know. He must be delirious. Shubal, go down to Mrs. Pryor, ask her to send for the doctor at once. No, first, let’s get him back into bed.”
As thin as Uncle Augustin had become, it took the two of them to settle him back on his pillows again, and his breathing was very slow and shallow.
“He must have heard them,” Shubal said in a half whisper, motioning toward the window. “Loud talk down there. Two men were quarreling. I heard only a few words when I came back and found him so. He—he kept saying that Amos was back—that he had come to kill him!”
“It’s all right now, Shubal. You go, I’ll stay with him.”
Persis gently freed the hand clawing at the bed netting and held it between hers.
“It’s all right, Uncle Augustin. There is no one here. Don’t you remember—Amos died a long time ago. Don’t you remember telling me that? He can’t be here.”
He stared at her blindly. There was a gathering of white froth at one corner of his mouth and he still struggled to get up, but such was his weakness she was able to keep him in bed.
“Amos traitor—said—murder— I never murdered—” Then his body went limp and his hand relaxed in her grasp. For the last time those vivid blue eyes closed.
4
Through the dark of the night the wind whispered in a way Persis had never before been aware of hearing. From her unbarred window she saw only a faint glimmer which must be a lantern on the wharf. But she did not focus on that, rather her eyes turned inward on pictures her memory presented.
Uncle Augustin was—gone.
And, to her dull surprise, his death had left a bigger void in her life than she would have guessed possible. She knew now his will had ruled her days, so much so that she could not think of life going on without him.
Slowly she stepped back from the window. Within the room only a single candle battled the shadows. Persis felt a flash of anger. Why had she been left in so much ignorance by Uncle Augustin? She was neither foolish nor flighty, but neither had she ever been allowed to think for herself.
Shubal had gone to pieces and she had taken enough initiative to order him to bed. Dr. Veering had given the old man a sleeping draft at her request. But that was all she had been able to do.
For Captain Leverett had simply taken command. In a way, he had acted as high-handedly as when he had swept her off the deck of the Arrow, displaying a little of the same impatience—or so she thought. Distraught as she had been at her uncle’s final collapse, she had not been a hysterical female, though one would have believed so the way he had given orders right and left.
There was lacking in him that reckless air which Ralph Grillon showed. The Captain might be only a little older than the Bahamian, but his self-confidence was so complete that he was as impervious as Uncle Augustin to the will or desires of others.
He-
Persis tensed. How could she have forgotten! The portfolio which had been Uncle Augustin’s last charge to her! Hours ago she had sent Molly off to bed, and promised to sleep herself. Only sleep had not come; her mind kept reenacting that last scene when her uncle had called in fear the name of a man long dead.
What had moved him to talk of murder? Persis shivered, drawing her shawl closer about her. The story he had told her about the Rooke who was a Tory—was there more to it than what Uncle Augustin had chosen to say? Had he known Amos Rooke as more than just an infamous family legend?
Uncle Augustin had reached the age of seventy-five and this was 1837. Persis made some hazy calculations. Why, he must have been at least in his early twenties at the time of the British evacuation of New York. And, though the part of the family that had backed the Revolutionary cause had withdrawn from the city several years earlier, he would have been old enough to have known Amos Rooke, even hated him for his betrayal of both family and country.
Yet he had spoken to her as if Amos Rooke were a stranger, as if he himself had had no direct knowledge of the man. Then why—why had he died denying that Augustin was a murderer—in fear of another dead man?
Persis resolutely took up the candle and lifted the latch of the door. In the portfolio which had been entrusted to her, she might find an answer. Though she had to force herself into the dark of the upper hall, shielding her candle with one hand against any puff of air, Persis could hardly bring herself to lay a hand on the latch of her uncle’s chamber. And, as she stood there, she heard the faintest of sounds.
Frozen, she glanced toward the head of the stairs. There was no breeze blowing here, that was no rustle of leaf or scrape of branch she heard. Yet she was not mistaken, there came a sound—and from the stairs. Not a footfall, rather something far less defined. Like —like the brush of a skirt edge against the banisters.
Lydia—Mrs. Pryor—? Why should either move through the night without a candle? The maids would use the other flight at the rear of the house. And they were not supposed to be here at all either, but in their cabins beyond the mound. Only Molly and Shubal had been housed in small chambers on the third floor, rooms intended really for an overflow of guests.
Persis strained to catch the faintest creak. No, she was not imagining this. There was someone coming up the front stairs. With one hand against the wall as a support (as if the paneling under her fingertips tied her to reality), the girl advanced, step by cautious step, to the head of the flight.
A moment later she could have cried out at her own stupidity. The candle she carried must show as clearly as a beacon, already giving her away to whoever moved so stealthily through the dark.
She stopped short. What had she to be afraid of? She had a perfect right to collect her uncle’s possession, confided to her care. But, as those sounds grew nearer-
Nothing—nothing to see. Only the whisper sounded louder. Fear caught her in an icy vise. She leaned back, pressing herself against the wall, closing her eyes. She refused to look. She would not! Still she was aware of a— For a moment her disturbed mind could not even find a word to cover the sensation which possessed her—she was blind, near dumb with panic—but there was a presence—
Persis knew that she must open her eyes. If she did not, this fear would fill her and she would scream mindlessly. That scream already arose painfully in her throat. But if she screamed she also knew, but not how she knew, she would be utterly lost.