This was, she decided, today’s Great Thought. She underlined it,
added some exclamation marks, then slammed the book shut – with
a bang so loud that two ladies seated at the far end of the room
turned to look at her with concern. This was by no means the first
time she had disturbed them; in fact, of a long, wet morning in a
small guesthouse drawing-room, a less ideal companion than Ellen
would have been hard to find. Had it been a half-grown leopard
who sprawled on the window seat, Mrs. Ordeyne and Miss Kerry –
who, in their two armchairs, were respectively knitting and trying to
read a novel – hardly could have been less at ease. This seventeenyear-old girl – with her long legs, shock of curls thrust on end, everjingling bangles, rumpled grey-flannel skirt – seemed to be making
a point of not settling down; nor, if others succeeded in doing so,
would it be her fault. To start with, she had prowled round the
centre table, listlessly but at the same time loudly turning over the
pages of magazines. Next, she had made an inexpert attempt to
smoke, striking many matches and then coughing. When at last she
produced her diary and began to write, her two fellow guests had
hoped for some minutes’ peace. Clearly, however, this was not to be.
Mrs. Ordeyne and Miss Kerry, all unaware of the drastic com
ment upon them Ellen had just indited, did their best to remain – or
appear – calm. Mrs. Ordeyne, reaching into her knitting bag for yet
another ball of angora wool, told herself that one must make every
allowance; it was hard on a girl being cooped up indoors like this,
for day after day of precious holiday. Yes, it was miserable for her.
But what, on the other hand, had induced her to do such a silly
thing as to come all alone to this guesthouse, where she knew no
one and where there were no young people for her to get to know?
The clientele of The Myrtles, at Seale-on-Sea, consisted of elderly,
quiet folk, plus one or two married couples with young children.
Had Ellen friends staying elsewhere at Seale-on-Sea? If so, they must
be letting her down.
Alas, thought the plump, kindly lady over her knitting, there
it was: Ellen, unhappy during these days indoors, had become the
admitted scourge of the guesthouse. Her woebegone air and aggres
sive moodiness were not to be ignored. Should not someone advise
her to make the best of things? Look at Miss Kerry, for instance,
giving her whole mind to that no doubt very interesting book. Mrs.
Ordeyne, who practically never read, had the highest respect for
those who did so.
Miss Kerry, if the truth were to be known, kept her eyes glued to
the printed pages only by the strongest effort of will. Concentration
became impossible; she had reached a stage when she could neither
read nor fall back on her own thoughts. Younger by fifteen years
than Mrs. Ordeyne, and by temperament much less patient, Miss
Kerry was more on edge than she cared to show. It was second
nature with her to conceal feeling – the fact that, for good or ill, her
entire future was to decide itself within the next few days was
suspected, here at The Myrtles, by not a soul. Her habit of carrying
round a book – which she read at mealtimes, even, at her solitary
table – earned her the reputation of being clever; in fact, the volume
chiefly served as a barricade against people’s attempts to make
conversation; behind it, she could remain, as she wished, alone. Mrs.
Ordeyne had perceived, and at once respected, her fellow guest’s
wish to keep herself to herself: the two had drifted, during these
past few days, into one of those friendships that are the result of
circumstances. Mrs. Ordeyne was happy to knit in silence; Miss
Kerry, in her odd state of suspense, felt soothed by this easy
companionship. She had no idea how intriguing, how mysterious
she appeared sometimes, or how strong a curb Mrs. Ordeyne, who
loved to know people’s stories, often had to keep on her curiosity.
Ellen, of course, wrote Miss Kerry off as a thin and no doubt
frustrated spinster. It was for Mrs. Ordeyne, with a homely woman’s
generous love of grace, to see that here was distinction – and, often,
beauty. Erica Kerry’s blue-white hair framed a somewhat remote,
fine-featured face, which youthfulness sometimes crossed like a flash
of sunshine. Her eyes were a changing, intense blue. The unusual,
subtle, though inexpensive elegance of her dress set off her slender
figure; nor could one fail to admire her feet and hands. As a rule,
Erica Kerry wore a mask of irony and reserve: though the former
might wear off, the latter did not. Mrs. Ordeyne, in general, got the
impression that here, somewhere, was ice on the point of thawing;
yet, at the same time, ice which dreaded to thaw. The few exterior
facts that had been let drop were as follows: Miss Kerry worked in
a London office, supported her mother, was here for her annual
holiday, and expected a friend to join her – she did not say who or
when.
Mrs. Ordeyne, having long been happily married, was now a
widow. She had raised satisfactory sons and daughters, who were
now giving her grandchildren: contented, she nowadays asked no
more of life.
These were the two who – when Ellen, having done with her
diary, proceeded to fling it violently to the floor – once again turned
round; this time not in silence.
“What is the matter?” exclaimed Miss Kerry.
onto one elbow to eye them blankly. “‘Wrong!’” she repeated in a
dumbfounded voice. “‘Matter?’” Words seemed to fail. Having reared
herself up, shaking back her hair, she went on to direct a fierce,
single, eloquent nod toward the outdoor scene. “What about that?”
she asked.
It was depressing enough. Rain hung in a chilling, sombre,
steadily falling veil over the garden’s sodden greenery, smoke-dark
trees, beaten-down borders, and spoiled roses. Beyond, where there
should have been a smiling view of the sea, a sullen grey-brown
smudge could be just perceived. And the worst of this was, it was
nothing new: today was the fourth wet day in succession. What an
obliteration of summer hopes – was this not July, a holiday month,
on the so-called sunny south coast of England? Nor would the
weather, even, be kept out: gloom from it, entering through large
windows, overcast the shabby-elegant, pretty drawing-room. From
the washed-out cretonnes of the armchairs and sofa, all colour
finally stole away; on the parquet flooring the faded rugs looked
bleak. The facts that The Myrtles had once been a private house and
that its owner, Miss Plackman, still preferred to keep it much as it
was in her father’s and mother’s time proclaimed themselves by giltframed watercolours, mirrored brackets, and Oriental and other
knickknacks – but these, too, looked mournful and blotted out. In
the elaborate turquoise-blue tiled grate, a fire, lighted by Miss
Plackman’s orders, tried but failed to burn in the damp air. Mrs.
Ordeyne and Miss Kerry sat over it because the idea was cheerful,
at any rate: little heat was sent out by the reality. Trees soughed and
dripped; a heavy, uneven trickle splashed past the windows from an
upstairs balcony.
“It certainly isn’t nice,” Mrs. Ordeyne agreed, with a slight shiver.
“Just give the fire the weeniest little poke, dear,” she went on, to
Miss Kerry, “then we shall see what happens. It hardly could be
worse. Poor Miss Plackman, always so kind and thoughtful! Now,
she’s a person I really am sorry for. Between ourselves, this year she’s
having a shocking season. We are not by any means up to full
numbers, and on top of that, there’ve been several cancellations.
People lose heart, this weather; they’d just as soon stay at home. I
hate to think of that poor, brave little creature fighting a losing
game – and look how she works, never off her feet! It would be
worry enough to own a place like this when it’s going badly – all her
savings are in it, I understand – without being manageress as well.
How plucky she is, when one comes to think that she was not
brought up to this sort of thing. Her father, you know, was a
colonel, and her mother had money. They once used to live very
comfortably in this house. How queer it must be for Miss Plackman,
I sometimes think, to see all these rooms, with their memories, full
of strangers.”
“I would have rather sold it,” Miss Kerry said.