The Opal-Eyed Fan

  Captain Pettigrew sighed. “Facts are facts right enough. But to owners they don’t add up sometimes high enough to match dollars and cents. You’ve treated us fair, Captain. It ain’t your fault either that we couldn’t save her after you worked her off that reef. And you’re more than fair in writing it all down like you did. I’ll be going now—no use keepin’ the boat waiting. And you, Miss,” he sketched an awkward bow to Persis. “I’ll do just as you ask and get in touch with some law man for you.”

  “Good luck, Captain,” she had just time enough to say before the door closed behind him. Then as the silence grew and Crewe Leverett made no move to explain why he had asked her to stay, just half-lay, half-sat in the huge bed, his shoulder well wedged motionless with pillows, she added nervously:

  “I seem to be unable to be the proper guest, Captain—”

  “How is that?” He was frowning a little once more as if, while he watched her so intently, he was trying to solve some problem of his own.

  “I am unable to withdraw my presence—though I am uninvited.”

  “Every once in a while,” he said slowly, “the sea gives more generously than it takes away. Have you ever gathered shells along the shore, Persis?”

  His complete change of subject, as well as his bold use of her name startled her. Or—a spark of anger (the kind which somehow he could always awaken in her) came to life. Was he thus obliquely approaching the subject of Ralph Grillon—trying to learn whether she had kept another rendezvous with the Bahamian captain?

  “No, I have not,” she returned somewhat sharply.

  “There are some beautiful ones—gems of the sea.” His eyes were still holding hers. “Lydia has a taste for such harvesting—ask her to show you. Those who first built here used clam shells to mix with the earth to rear the mounds of their city—pave their trails. Yes, you must go shelling before you leave us, Persis, and see how generous the sea can be in its own way.”

  She could not understand his change of mood, nor be sure that there was not a subtle hint in his talk of shelling along the shore. Now she was at a loss as to how to reply as a short silence held between them.

  “What do you think of Lost Lady Key, Persis?” again he changed the subject.

  “What I have seen of it,” she answered, “is at least very different from New York.” Her words sounded so inane in her own ears that she thought he might well dismiss her now as a female completely lacking in brains. Of course, it was different from New York. But she was not going to go into detail about her continued uneasiness in this house, the strange dreams which had plagued her, and her fear of the sea storms.

  Now he was smiling a little. And Persis guessed that his estimate of her intelligence was just what she feared. Which added a pinch of fuel to that deep-down opposition he had the power to stir within her.

  “Yes—it is very different from New York,” he sounded mocking. “And did you so greatly fancy New York, Persis?”

  She thought back. The solid safety of life there—it had been solidly safe under Uncle Augustin’s roof. But also—very dull. She certainly could not say the same of Lost Lady Key.

  “I knew nothing else, sir,” she fell back on young lady manners, “until I came here.”

  “And you will return to New York?” he persisted, why she could not guess. What did her future mean to him, after she was able to get away from his involuntary hospitality?

  “I can tell nothing about that. Not until I learn what is to be done about the inheritance in the islands—”

  “Yes,” he nodded, “the inheritance in the islands. The news you got from Grillon. Just what in particular did he have to warn you about?”

  Persis hesitated. She had wanted so much to turn to someone for advice. Molly—Shubal—both were loyal and they would follow where she led. They would not make suggestions. There was this, however, if Captain Leverett knew the whole tale he might be willing to somehow aid in her departure. She had been brought up in Uncle Augustin’s way of silence concerning family matters, and now she could not quite understand what pushed her toward making a full story of her dilemma here and now.

  “There is another heir, a new one,” she cut her explanation short. “Captain Grillon knows of this and told me. My cousin—long known to be dead—left a child no one knew about—”

  “Until,” Crewe Leverett cut in, “there was a sizable estate to be settled, is that it? And you accept this story, Persis? Does it not seem a bit odd that such an heir comes into the open only after those most concerned are dead?”

  She studied him suspiciously, half-convinced that he was indeed mocking her inexperience. Though there was no sign of that in his expression.

  “I would not,” he continued after a moment, “accept Ralph Grillon’s word on any subject. You told me he tried to bargain with you. There is no reason to believe that this heir exists anywhere—except perhaps in his own imagination. He is—”

  “Your enemy,” she cut in, seething that he took her to be so stupid. “I know that. And I would take no one’s word until it is all investigated. I am not,” she arose, “such a ninny as you seem to think I am, Captain Leverett.”

  That half smile did not leave him. “So you read thoughts, too, Persis Rooke? Now that is interesting. But I fear you take your powers far too much for granted. I am merely warning you that it is best to make your own decisions on hard evidence and not on the word of a man who bears none too good a reputation. Come, now, you can’t think as hardly of me as you look just now. I do have some virtues along with the usual complement of vices.”

  Persis hesitated. She could not read any mockery into that no matter how hard she tried. And, oddly enough she resented the fact that he seemed able to disarm her just when she thought her defenses so well organized. Now she seized wildly on a change of subject of her own, wanting to get away from that which touched her personally in a way she could not understand and did not want to.

  “Captain Leverett, you asked how I liked Lost Lady. Lydia has told me some of its history—it sounds very dark and cruel.”

  “I suppose every piece of land has its own ghosts,” he accepted her switch. “Perhaps this holds more than most. Askra’s people had a city here once. Their great temple was on the mound supporting this house. Then they were hunted by the Spanish and the Seminoles turned loose to clear them from the land. And the Spanish rule was harsh in turn, being overwhelmed by a pirate attack about a hundred years ago. Has Lydia showed you the opal-eyed fan? That is a relic of the past with a very queer story—a dead pirate captain and a captive Spanish lady who disappeared.

  “The Spanish came to rule once more—and then once more an Indian uprising. Finally, we came. But the sea is the last conqueror, you know. It threatens—” He moved a little on the pillows as if his shoulder hurt him.

  Without thinking Persis went to the bed and settled the pile supporting him more firmly.

  “You’ve a light hand,” his face was now so close to hers that the deep blue of his eyes were like pools of the sea. A person, she thought, could be drawn into such pools. The oddity of that idea made her flush and retreat hastily. Somehow, though she had learned her deftness caring for Uncle Augustin, this was not at all like that. And she drew back to the end of the big bed as if she had fled from some danger she could not understand.

  “I nursed my uncle,” she tried to make her voice as matter-of-fact as she could. “One learns how to do things when one has to.”

  “A statement which can be applied to all our lives,” Captain Leverett remarked. “And we go on learning, Persis—remember that. So you think Lost Lady is dark and cruel.”

  “Maybe not the land, just the stories about it.” She was thankful that he returned to that. “Yes, Lydia showed me the fan—it is very strange and beautiful. But I do not think I would care to use it myself.” Should she tell him of the second fan—the mock fan which concealed death within it? She wanted to, but somehow she could not find the words before she spoke.

 
“Perhaps you are right in that. The islanders will have it that the Lost Lady is jealous of her prize possession and would not take kindly to its falling into other hands. They say she walks—but she only shows herself to those who are in danger or an islander who has angered her. So beware of our ghost, Persis!” And now he was smiling again, the mocking note back in his voice.

  “Sir—” She wanted to say that such superstitions were beneath any rational mind to entertain, but knowing what lay in her chest of drawers she could not. “Sir,” she began again, “I shall certainly remember your warning.”

  “Captain,” Mrs. Pryor opened the door to look in upon them. “Nate Hawkins is here—”

  Persis used the chance to escape. Escape what? She could not have said. But she did not want to think of the fan—of the Lost Lady. Nor, if she told the truth, of Crewe Leverett. Better go back to Molly and a comfortable relationship she knew so well.

  12

  She found the maid drowsy and inclined to sleep, saying that Mrs. Pryor had sent her a soothing draft.

  “Miss Lydia brought it herself,” Molly mumbled. “Most obliging she was about it.”

  Then her eyes closed as if she could not keep them open a second longer. And within a moment or two she was snoring a little. But Persis continued to sit on the single chair. Though her eyes were fixed on Molly’s sweating and mottled face, her thoughts were busy in another direction.

  If her letter was dispatched as soon as possible–even then it could be weeks before an answer reached her. And they certainly could not stay on here. Would any lawyer in Key West respond to her plea? And if so—how long would it take for him to discover the truth? She looked down at her hands lying idly in her lap.

  The purse which had been in Uncle Augustin’s possession was now hers but the sum it held seemed small to her. To provide for the three of them in Key West—and perhaps pay for passage north again—would those funds suffice? Now for the first time Persis was disturbed that she knew so little about her uncle’s affairs.

  Slowly she got up and went to the small, single window. This room, like the Captain’s chamber, overlooked the moat and the canal. Men were busy on the wharf—the Nonpareil had been brought in and there seemed to be a great deal of activity going forward here. Beyond lay the wreckage of the Arrow, driven ashore, its bow towering up so that the battered figurehead of the Indian warrior with his bowstrung arrow set to the cord now silently pointed up into the sky.

  Farther out she could see the mail packet already lifting anchor, preparing to depart. In spite of her need to be about her own affairs, she was glad she was not aboard. It looked smaller and even more squalid than the Arrow had been.

  “No–!”

  Persis swung around to face the bed. Molly’s face was screwed up in an expression the girl had never seen there before, one of sheer fear—though her eyes were closed. “No—” the sleeper repeated, as if to deny what she did see in some dream.

  “Molly!” Remembering her own nightmares Persis moved quickly to her side, ready to shake her awake. “Molly, it is just a dream!”

  “No!” There was such force in that denial that Persis grasped the plump shoulder almost fiercely. It was plain that Molly was caught in some horror.

  “Molly! Wake up!” She shook the maid, first lightly, and then more energetically as Molly showed no signs of rousing.

  Instead, the woman suddenly raised one hand and struck out at Persis.

  “Let go—devil—devil!” Her mutter became a full cry now. “The knife–no!”

  Persis bent over her, seized both shoulders to shake her firmly. She must break the dream which held the sleeping woman, for the grimace of fear on her face was like an ugly mask.

  Molly gasped, her breath whistling between her lips. Then her eyes opened and she was staring up wildly.

  “Devil–”

  Consciousness came back slowly and with it bewilderment. Persis kept her hold on Molly as if to anchor the maid to the safe present.

  The woman’s face convulsed, and, for the first time in years, Persis saw tears gather in her eyes.

  “Miss Persis!” Molly’s own hands rose to snatch and grip the girl’s wrists in a hold so tight her nails scored the younger woman’s flesh. “Miss Persis—send her away!”

  “Who, Molly?”

  “The one—the one who is—” the maid’s head turned on the pillow as she searched the room. “But she was here!” Beads of sweat dotted both her forehead and her upper lip. “I saw her—that witch—that Indian witch! She was goin’ to kill me—with a knife—so she was! And there were a lot of others all stand’ around watchin’ an’ jus’ waitin’ for her to do it! I saw her as plain as I see you right now!”

  “It was a dream, Molly. I’ve been right here with you—there’s no one else in the room.”

  Now the tears brimmed over in Molly’s eyes and ran down her cheeks.

  “I ain’t never had such a dream as that before, Miss Persis. It was realer nor any dream. She—she was like a devil—wearin’ that nasty false face of her an’ a-comin’ for me with a knife. I couldn’t get away nohow—” Molly’s sobs shook her stolid body. “What’s the matter with me, Miss Persis? Is it true what they say, that there old witch can lay a sendin’ on you an’ you jus’ gets sicker and sicker?”

  “Nonsense!” Persis interrupted with all the authority she could summon. Let Molly begin to believe that she was cursed or some such thing and she would be sick. “It was a dream—just a dream.”

  Molly still clung to the girl. “I ain’t never had no such real dream before,” she repeated with some of her old stubbornness. “Seems like if it were a dream somebody made me dream it. ’Cause there was all those people—heathens wearing feathers and masks—and with burnin’ torches—jus’ standin’ there a-watchin’ what was goin’ to happen to me. An’ they wanted me dead!”

  “But it isn’t true,” Persis pointed out patiently. “You’re right here in your bed, and I’m here with you.” Her own dream! Molly had experienced something very close to it. However, the last thing Persis would do now was to let the maid know that they had shared the same terrible vision. For she felt that if she did Molly would cling to the fact that they both might have been led to dream by another’s evil will.

  Could one’s dreams be dictated by an outside force? It was a very strange idea. Persis exiled that quickly to the back of her mind now. The main thing was that the maid must be soothed and led to believe that her fear had no base in fact.

  “I—I was—it was so real—”

  “Some dreams can be, or seem to be. But this one was not real, Molly. Now, I’ll stay here with you, I promise.”

  Molly’s hold on her loosened a trifle. “If you will, Miss Persis, I’ll take that kindly, ’deed I will. I feel so sleepy.” Again her eyes, though she appeared to fight to keep them open, were drooping shut. “Don’t let me dream like that, please, Miss Persis.”

  “I won’t!” the girl promised stoutly, but how she might prevent it she did not know. Then sighting something resting upon the bureau gave her a new idea. She gently disengaged herself from Molly’s hold and went to pick up the worn Bible which the maid, as she well knew, read each morning and night.

  “See here,” she held the book with its scuffed cover out so Molly could easily see it. “You’re going to put this under your pillow. Do you think then any bad dream can come near you?”

  “Give it here, Miss Persis. My, you’re a knowin’ one! That’s the truth. Ain’t nothing evil goin’ to come nigh that. It was my mother’s an’ she taught me my letters out of it.”

  Molly smoothed the Bible with loving hands. “T’will be like havin’ mother here—like when I was a small maid and afeard of somethin’.”

  She was her old confident self again and Persis blessed the inspiration which had made her think of that device. Or was it only a device? She had heard once, just now she could not remember where, that something on which had been centered good thoughts was indeed a barrier
against evil. And if Molly believed she was safe, then her own belief might carry over into her sleep, preventing any more dreams.

  The maid settled herself once more against her pillows, eyes closed. But Persis was left with a puzzle she could not solve. The bits and pieces Molly had mentioned certainly fitted in her own nightmare. Though she had not been an actual part of that as Molly apparently had been—just an onlooker. However, if the maid had been gripped by the same horror she had felt, Persis did not wonder at her terror on waking.

  Did the dark history of this house, of the mound on which it squatted, indeed force itself into sleeping minds? She herself had had bad dreams in the past but never ones as clear and as barbaric as those of last night. And to have the same touch Molly—? What did haunt Lost Lady Key?

  True to her promise she settled herself once more on the chair. But this time Molly’s sleep seemed undisturbed by any visions and Persis began to feel restless. Had it not been for her promise she would have at least slipped to the next room to look in upon Shubal. As she twisted a little in her chosen seat she saw the door open quietly. A moment later Lydia came in.

  “She’s sleeping? Good!” Lydia moved with a swish of skirts to take up a small tray on which rested a mug. “She’ll feel much better when she wakes. Mrs. Pryor’s tea always settles the stomach.”

  “It was kind of you to bring it up,” Persis murmured in a whisper.

  Lydia shrugged. “No matter. Your man is better, too. But you—” She was studying Persis intently. “Do you feel feverish—have you a headache?” she asked with an emphasis which seemed almost eager.

  “No.” Persis was not going to go into details over her disturbed night. “I am concerned, naturally.”

  “What did Crewe want to see you about? Tell you he was going to take over running things for you?” Lydia’s eyes were very intent upon her now.

  “No, in fact he suggested that I turn to shell hunting on the beach,” Persis said, “and that I ask to see your collection.”