Moon Garden. V. J. Banis

overcrowding of the furniture did not diminish to moderate proportions.

      It passed. The man had come into the room, about the settee, and greeted her. Her first impression was of a man too good looking to be true. They shook hands and some bit of insight told her he was not really so sure of himself as he would like to appear, nor quite so young as she had thought at first glimpse. Although it was an old fashioned word, mountebank came to mind. He was a little more pleased to make her acquaintance then ought to be possible at such short notice and his face crinkled too quickly into those pre-arranged lines of charm that good looking people assume so easily.

      “Mr. Elliott is a writer,” Aunt Minna said. “He’s doing a book on old homes of the south, and naturally he wanted to include this one.”

      “It’s quite a treasure,” he said.

      Ellen had placed him. Small time writer of large books. Old ladies darling. Star of the tea party circuit. His young face was etched over with lines caused by expressing too often thoughts that were not his own. But he had charm, and he looked genuinely happy to see Ellen. She thought he probably welcomed having someone of roughly his own generation to talk to.

      “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow,” he said.

      “She said in her letter she was coming the nineteenth,” Aunt Minna said. “Look, it’s right here.”

      She went to one of the rosewood writing tables and rummaging through some papers on its surface, picked up a sheet of paper. From where she sat, Ellen could see at once that it was her letter, but Aunt Minna’s eyes scanned it quickly and she put it aside.

      “Now I can’t find the letter,” she said, turning away from the desk. “Dawson, ring for Bondage and tell her you want some tea.”

      “No need for her to run up and down the steps,” he said. “I’ll slip down and tell her. Excuse me, ladies.”

      He was gone, literally seeming to slip out of the room.

      “Mr. Eliot is staying in the house,” Aunt Minna said, as if she thought some explanation was needed.

      “I see, “Ellen said. She did not know what to think of that. She thought finally it was probably none of her business, and she had better refrain from commenting upon it.

      Dawson Elliott was back in a moment, followed by Mrs. Bondage with a second teapot. Dawson himself carried a China plate of petit-fours which he started to set on the table before Ellen. Aunt Minna countered with a magniloquent, “These are the best,” and whipping the lid off her silver box, planted it down before Ellen with such sudden recklessness that Dawson had to snatch his own offering to safety.

      They had more tea, although Ellen was feeling saturated by now. Finally, Aunt Minna rose and put out her hand toward her niece. “Come along, my dear, and see your room. Did you bring your luggage?”

      “It’s at the airport,” Ellen said, remembering it for the first time.

      “Never mind, Pomfret can get it later. Come along now.”

      “I feel like I’m imposing. If I had known you already had company....”

      “Nonsense.” Minna threw open the door. “I shall like to have you. And Dawson isn’t company, he’s only a writer.” There was the faintest twinkle in her eye as she said this, as though she were up to some mischief, the nature of which eluded Ellen.

      They went up the wide stairway to the third floor and arrived at the room that was to be hers. It had a canopied four-poster, garlanded ivory walls, with a lovely view from the window of the river and some green trees, spread out like a tapestry.

      The room was not quite ready, the bedclothes in a stack on the bare mattress. Minna was furious. “Ring for Mrs. Bondage,” she said, indicating the bell pull, “and tell her to get this in order at once. We were expecting you tomorrow of course, but still....”

      “There’s no need to make a fuss over me,” Ellen said. “I can make the bed of myself. It’s easier, actually.”

      “Oh well, easier,” Aunt Minna said disdainfully. “It’s easier to lie down then to stand up. The easiest thing of all is to be a vegetable, so far as that goes.”

      Ellen rang the bell as she was asked. Aunt Minna had gone to the window, and Ellen followed.

      “It’s lovely,” she said.

      “Yes. That’s the Savannah River. Down there, though you can’t see it from here for the trees, we have our own little inlet and dock, so we have ocean access still, by the river. Not many houses can boast that. And from the other side, from the window in the hall, you can see the whole Terrace. It used to be so much nicer I’m afraid.”

      Ellen leaned forward a little, out the window. Off to the left, through the trees, she could see a yellow house, a cottage. As she looked in that direction, she thought a curtain moved, as if it had been held aside and then, as she looked, allowed to fall.

      “Who lives there?” she asked.

      Aunt Minna followed her glance. “Oh, there. It’s the Creighton’s guest cottage, but they’ve let it. That’s what has happened to the terrace, people letting houses to any riff-raff that comes along.”

      “They have rented to somebody unsavory, have they?” Ellen was amused at her aunt’s rigid social sense.

      “That’s exactly what they’ve done. The man’s a writer.”

      “Isn’t Dawson Elliott a writer?”

      “Yes. But this man writes romances. I have no doubt what kind of romances, either. And he’s a northerner. His name is, let me see, Parker. Yes, Mr. Kenneth Parker. I looked in the Who’s Who, but there are no writers listed by that name. You won’t want to mix with him, dear. Ah, here’s Bondage.”

      * * * *

      Dawson Elliott smoked a cigarette, pacing the length of the sitting room and then, since Minna had not yet returned, smoked a second cigarette. A window was open upon the street, and he went to it. On the table by it was the old telescope she used to spy on people. Thank god for it, he thought. He’d had more than one occasion to use it himself.

      Minna entered from the hall, sniffing the air disapprovingly. He not put out his cigarette, but he did stay by the window so that the gentle breeze caught the wisps of smoke and carried them away.

      “Well?” he asked.

      She seemed to be completely unconcerned with their real problem. While he was worrying, she looked downright happy.

      “Bondage is making the bed for her,” she said, which had nothing to do with what was worrying him. “She’ll be comfortable there, I’m certain.”

      “What brought her a day early?” he asked, determined not to be put off in that way she had. “You don’t suppose that she...?”

      Minna’s dark eyes flashed. She knew perfectly well what was bothering him. “Don’t be ignorant,” she snapped. “The girl has been ill. We must make little allowances. She got her dates mixed up. I myself would have been more accurate, but as I say, she’s been ill. Who left the lid off that box?” She snatched up the lid for the little silver cookie box and clapped it into place.

      “It’s most inconvenient.” He tossed his cigarette outside. “Having her here tonight.”

      She stood for a moment in thoughtful silence, staring at the silver box but seeing, he was sure, something quite different.

      “She’s very tired,” she said on a note of finality. “I expect she’ll sleep very soundly tonight.”

      I hope so, he thought, but he did not voice the thought aloud. He wondered if there was an innuendo in her statement, something to be read between the lines. Did she mean to ensure that the girl slept very soundly? There was no telling, and no use asking.

      Asking in fact might be very bad. He had made one