Читать книгу Moon Garden - V. J. Banis - Страница 9

CHAPTER FIVE

Ellen woke with a start. For just a moment, she did not know where she was. She thought she was still at Lawndale, in that cold, institutional room with its wire-mesh-covered windows. She lay with her eyes closed, trying to recall the dream that had wakened her, listening without any real attention to the murmur of voices in the hall outside. One of the patients must be causing trouble, she thought

Then she remembered, this was not Lawndale, but Aunt Minna’s home in Savannah. And the voices, she realized, opening her eyes, were not coming from the hall, but from outside.

She slipped out of bed and went to the window, but the voices had stopped. She listened, and heard a whispering sound, but she could not say for certain whether it was really people whispering, or only the wind in the trees. Perhaps she had not heard voices of all. Perhaps it had only been a remnant of her dream.

Something flickered through the trees, gleamed briefly, and was gone. It might have been someone walking with a flashlight. Or it might have been a boat on the river.

Or I might have imagined it, she told herself. She felt restless. She turned and crossed the dark room, to the door.

She was not imagining that the door was locked, certainly. She tried it timidly, and then with some force. It was plainly locked.

She stepped back from it, staring at the faint gleam of the brass knob. Even in Lawndale she had not been locked into her room. She had not been considered violent, only....

But what did Aunt Minna know of these distinctions? Aunt Minna had obviously considered her dangerous, dangerous enough that she must be locked up like a caged animal at night.

She had gone to bed earlier with a sense of happiness and the feeling of confidence. When she returned to her bed now it was to huddle like a frightened chick, pulling the covers close up under her chin and staring for long time at the molding about the ceiling.

* * * *

“You must have been mistaken, dear. You can see for yourself, the door isn’t locked. Aunt Minna moved the door pointedly to and fro.

“But it was locked,” Ellen insisted, but she added, less firmly, “I thought it was.” More than that, she had been sure that it was. It had not been locked in the morning, however, and Aunt Minna knew nothing about it, and Ellen was sure those dark eyes were not concealing a lie.

So unless she accepted the idea that one of the servants, or Dawson Elliott, had stolen along the hall in the night to lock her in, and again later to unlock the door, the only conclusion was that she must somehow have been mistaken. And considering what the past year had been like for her, that was not a very pleasant idea to contemplate.

“What has happened,” Minna said, apparently dismissing the matter as of no consequence, “is that you had a bad dream and you’re having a little difficulty this morning remembering that it was a dream. I assure you, my child, locking people in their rooms is not my style. And even if it were, what possible reason do you think I could have?”

She looked at her niece and because Helen looked so miserable, she suddenly understood.

“I assure you,” Minna said with a tenderness quite uncommon to her, “I had put that matter completely out of my thoughts. And now I think it’s time you did the same. Come, dry those tears, and let’s put things in order here, shall we?”

It was Saturday, and Aunt Minna had decided Ellen’s room must be rearranged, and she must personally supervise the work. Ellen, relieved to know that she hadn’t been locked in like a dangerous animal (although it was a bit frightening to think she was having trouble separating reality from dreams) stood by and watched in awe.

Minna seemed set on dispelling any gloom by the practice of much busy-ness. Every few minutes she would think of something more that was needed to make the room comfortable.

She had Mrs. Bondage, and Bertha, and a frail looking elderly gentleman who turned out to be Pomfret, flying up and down the stairs in a whirlwind of activity.

In the process, Ellen learned that these three made up the servants staff, and that the two women came days, while Pomfret lived in a room in the basement. She learned a good deal too of Minna’s attitudes regarding servants.

“You must see that they take care of things,” Aunt Minna warned her. “See that they do what you ask them. Servants get some strange ideas these days. Pomfret talked to me once about days off. Can you imagine? Days off! And you must see that they have things to do for you, even if it’s unnecessary. Otherwise they don’t respect you, and then they become impossible.”

She would interrupt these monologues at frequent intervals to flay the servants with her tongue. These scoldings seemed to disturb Ellen more than the staff, and after a time she began to realize that the servants were quite accustomed to these harangues and attached little if any importance to them.

Ellen must have a tea caddy and a silver service, in case she wanted tea in her room. The dressing table was placed wrong for the light, and it must be moved. The new position was equally bad, but satisfied the older woman. There must be a writing table, and paper, and an ink stand.

It was clear that Aunt Minna was enjoying herself. For Ellen it was such a welcome change, all this purposeful bustle, and no one giving a hoot if her feelings were hurt over something, or watching what they said to be sure they did not offend. Aunt Minna had no hesitation in calling someone crazy. She apparently considered all but a handful of Savannah’s residents to be in that condition.

She was also, Ellen decided, the most tireless stander ever known. When Ellen suggested she supervise the work from a chair, Minna waved the suggestion away.

So they both stood, because Ellen did not want to admit to greater weakness, and if her aunt thought of her niece’s comfort in this respect, she did not once mention it. As Minna’s dresses came almost to the ground, Ellen speculated whether the woman might be solid from the waist down and thereby less vulnerable to fatigue than ordinary persons. She nearly asked to see her ankles, and had a giggling fit at the thought of the reaction this might provoke, so earning herself a look from Aunt Minna, who apparently had no high opinion of unexplained giggling either.

At last Minna seemed to think the room satisfactory, and retired to her own sitting room. Not, Ellen felt sure, to lie down. It seemed impossible for her to imagine her aunt voluntarily assuming a horizontal position.

She herself was exhausted by such tireless energy. She sat at the writing table, remembering that she must write a note to her mother to tell her she had arrived and was safely installed in the house. She found at once that the ink in the massive chased silver and glass ink stand had long since dried to dust. She got a ballpoint pen from her purse and wrote her note with that instead.

She made it succinct. She could not, without alarming her mother, say, “You were right, Aunt Minna is as crazy as a loon, and I love her.”

No good telling her mother about the mix-up in dates, as that would only worry her. She knew the house, so it needn’t be described, and she would not take well to the idea that it was crumbling into dust. And if she knew that Aunt Minna had another house guest, a single man who was young and good looking, and a writer, well....

What she told her mother was that she had arrived safely, she found house and aunt both charming, and was feeling very much at peace already. That, she felt confident, was what her mother would need to hear.

She addressed the envelope and, sealing it, took it downstairs with her. Her aunt was not about, but Bondage was scurrying along the hall on one of her errands, and Ellen asked her what to do about mailing the letter.

“Just leave it with me miss,” Bondage said. “I’ll see Pomfret takes it down to the station with the other mail.”

“Does he go regularly?” Ellen asked, thinking she ought to know if there was a schedule, so that she could suit her letter writing to it.

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Elliott does a lot of mailing, to do with his book, I suppose. Pomfret goes just after lunch every day.”

“I’ll remember, and thank you,” Ellen said, handing the letter over.

“You’re welcome, I’m sure.” Bondage bobbed her head and smiling cheerfully, went on her way.

It was not yet lunchtime. Ellen felt very much on her own. She wandered through a few of the downstairs rooms. They were very grand and spoke of a life that was much more elegant than todays. In her mind’s eye, she saw these rooms filled with ladies in crinoline. An army of servants would post and speed, while outside, the Terrace would be lined solid with fine carriages.

She laughed at her reveries. Someone, she forgot who, had said that one’s reverence for the past was just in proportion to one’s ignorance of it. It was probably quite true. If she had really been here in such a scene as she had been imagining, it would probably have been quite different, and far less romantic.

And what of her aunt? She lived in the past, although she could hardly be said to be ignorant of it. She dwelt in this old house as if under glass. What if that fragile shell were to be shattered?

Well, she herself knew all about fragile shells. She hid within one herself, knowing that it was scant armor, yet still seeking refuge within it.

Was she so different from other people, though? What of all those others, all the vast multitudes that made up the race of men, each wearing his own delicate armor, walking about carefully, trying to avoid bumping into one another, lest the glass shatter? And, yes, sometimes one got too close

She had come to the end of the hall. The door opened onto a small back terrace, overhung with bougainvillea and from the terrace she could see a path running into the trees. This, she decided, glancing around to get her bearings, would be the path down to the river.

She took it, strolling idly. It was shady, and when the summer heat was really up it would be a delight to escape it here. Fallen leaves from other seasons made a soft, thick carpet underneath, and the air had a damp, earthy smell that was soothing. She thought that it must have been from here that she had heard those voices and seen the light during the night.

If, she thought, frowning, there had been any voices, or any light. Or had they too been a part of her strange dream?

The path twisted through the trees, breaking for a moment at a clearing lush with honeysuckle. Here the way divided, one fork running uphill, the other continuing down.

The one that went up, she thought looking in that direction, must go up to the yellow cottage she had seen through the trees, though she could not see it from here. She continued on the path down to the river, past a magnolia tree. A blossom seemed to pause briefly in its descent from tree to ground.

The carpeting of leaves made her steps silent. She came in sight of the water, a small inlet, a miniature cove that branched off the river. A crude little dock, the wood old and gray, had been built into the water from the muddy bank.

The water too was gray, and deep green, and dappled with yellow where the sunlight broke through the trees. The perfumes of honeysuckle and magnolia, and the ripe earth, blended with a river scent, assaulting the nostrils. The stillness was broken by the trilling of a bird somewhere in the trees, and a gentle lapping of water against the wooden pilings.

She was not alone after all. There was a man on the dock, his back to her. A young man, slim, with muscles rippling over his back where his shirt was stretched taut. His hair gleamed a silvery-yellow in the sun. He knelt at the end of the wooden planking, bending far forward to look at something.

He did not hear her, of course, because her approach was so noiseless, and because he was so absorbed in whatever it was he was examining. Since he was so quiet, she herself could not think to make any noise, or announce her presence. She came on down the path, watching him, thinking he might be some splendid river god, just a minute before having risen up from the waters to dry himself in the sunlight.

She stepped onto the rotted wood of the dock, and then he heard her, or perhaps, felt her presence. His reaction was sudden and startling. He seemed in one violent movement to stand and turn, like a skater making a stupendous leap.

He was suddenly facing her, but it was not that alone that startled her. It was the way he was facing her. He was crouched slightly, ready to spring, and his hands at his side were half clenched. He was an animal, surprised in his lair, ready in an instant to defend against attack.

She was nearly as surprised to see him. She looked at that long, oval face with the pale blue eyes that seemed to blaze with a light from within, and recognized him at once.

She had seen him only a few days before, in Cincinnati. Then, he had been following her across the fountain square, watching her so closely that he had collided with another woman.