The Bazaar and Other Stories (21 page)

 

– as handsome as the establishment deserved. He had a wild bright
glancing and reckless eye, whose laughter pity could not stop. A
destroying smile – and indeed now it was as though Rose hoped to
hold a hawk by the wing. And how indeed was Miss Annabelle, who
next day bolted, ever to hope more? Miss Mettishaw, no longer
there to care, never heard the end. It was all the same to him – his
bad name (he was quitting the Regiment), debts all over the town.
No fire, scorching the fern and sending up in a flare the delicate
stuffs, could have consumed the establishment more wholly than did
that starting from the officer’s eye. Foreseeing everything to be said,
how the establishment was no better than a house of assignation,
Miss Mettishaw put herself out of business and left the town before
that week was up. If the establishment could not be what it had
been, it could not be. No, the establishment never decayed: it fell.

 

Miss Mettishaw, who no longer cared for anything, did not care
enough for us even to warn us against love. Talking above the
machine in her toneless voice, she used to tell us how she once used
to have an establishment of her own. The dresses she made for us,
in which we never felt very happy, are worn out; and we have out
lived the mood of those past years during which she came to our
house to work. But by dying, she left the establishment to us: from
time to time it makes us remember her.
So Much Depends
^“
P
eople grow duller as they grow older,” young Ellen
wrote in the diary that was her confidant. “They care less. One way
or the other, nothing matters to them.”

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.

 

“My dear, is anything wrong?” supplemented Mrs. Ordeyne.
The girl on the window seat, stretched at full length, rolled over

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.

 

“Well, I don’t know. She loved it: it was her home. And last year,
for instance, everything went so well – the place was packed out,
and we all were so happy. But then last summer was perfect – do you
remember? – almost endless wonderful cloudless days. One lived
outdoors; by the sea or in some nook in the garden. Yes, how
delightful it was,” she concluded, with a reminiscent smile. “You
should have been here last year.”

 

“Don’t,” cried Miss Kerry, “please!” Abruptly, she shook her head,
as though to dispel a tormenting dream. “If only last summer could
have been this! Blue skies, pink roses, dazzling days by the sea, long,
lovely evenings under these trees. Do you suppose I don’t see it all?
The ideal summer. That was what I had pictured, what I had hoped.”
She broke off, caught a breath, and resumed. “All that was what I’d
been counting on. One should never count on anything that is too
important. In fact, one should never count on anything, should
one?”

 

Mrs. Ordeyne, after a rapid and searching glance, said, discreetly,
nothing. The intensity, passion even, in Miss Kerry’s voice had
confirmed, more than the speaker knew, Mrs. Ordeyne’s suspicions
that her friend had “a story” – and, still more, an unfinished one.
Never till this moment had Miss Kerry so nearly broken the silence
in which she enclosed her life. What more might have come if the
wretched Ellen had not been present? Mrs. Ordeyne longed for a
tête-à-tête
. She reproached herself for her wish to probe. At the same
time, might it not do Erica good to talk?

 

Over her spectacles, the good lady fixed on the window seat a
kind, thoughtful stare. “It’s very dull for you in here,” she said to
Ellen. “Do you know what I should do if I were your age? I should
put on my mackintosh and some nice thick shoes, and take myself
out.”

 

“I don’t care to walk by myself.”

 

“Do you know nobody here?”

 

“It’s not so much that.” Ellen paused and darkly seemed to reflect.
“I haven’t got a mackintosh,” she said finally, “or – ” with the air of
scoring a point – “thick shoes.”

 

“What a rash way to come away on a holiday,” Mrs. Ordeyne felt
it right to observe.

 

“What a beast of a holiday to have come away on,” returned
Ellen. She yawned, to show that in her view that was that. She then
looked contritely at her diary, now lying face down with rumpled
pages on the floor. Why had she been so rough with it? It was her
only friend. It shared her secret, known to nobody else – her private
reason for coming to Seale-on-Sea. Those early entries which held
the clue were, for that very reason, tormenting reading.

 

The first was dated last May: “Have this evening met only man
I shall ever love, called Peter Manfrey. I feel certain we are each
other’s Fate. I could see he found me quite different from other girls.
He is older than me, and quite a man of the world. From now on I
shall be thinking of nothing else but Peter, and how to see him as
much as I can.”

 

Then, a fortnight later: “The only trouble with Peter is, he is too
good-natured. He lets all these other people keep hanging onto
him. At all these parties and at the tennis club it is always the same.
What is the good of him and me living in the same place if we are
never to be Alone? Much of the best hope would be for us to be
right away in some exquisite and romantic spot. I wonder where he
is going for his holidays. Owing to all this constant interruption, I
have not even so far had a chance to ask him.”

 

June: “Oh, I am so happy! Everything has worked out as though
by magic! Not only are his holidays in the same month as mine, but
I have managed to get a room at the same place he is going to,
Seale-on-Sea. He is to be with his parents (because they have not
seen much of him since he came out of the Army) in a hotel on the
front. Even if I could afford a hotel and if they were not all certainly
booked up now, I know Dad and Auntie, being so old-fashioned,
would fuss at my going to one alone. But by good luck – Fate again!