Too Young to Marry

by Rosalind Brett

  “Oh, but he doesn’t—only today while he’s absent. Soda water and ice, Mrs. Astley?”

  “Please.” She took the drink .and sipped it, looked about her appraisingly. “Haven’t made any changes, have you?”

  “I’ve hardly had time.”

  “Well, you don’t have much else to do. This still looks like a bachelor’s room. Nothing of yours anywhere.”

  Lorna smiled. “I practically grew up in a boarding school where we had to be tidy. Is the drink as you like it?”

  “It’s just right.” But somehow the woman couldn’t help but sound grudging. She added bluntly, “I suppose I have to call you Mrs. Westbrook?”

  “Of course not. Would you like a cigarette?”

  The other took one from the proffered box, held it to her lips and leaned towards the match Lorna was holding. She blew smoke away from her, sank back again and gave Lorna another long curious glance.

  “You don’t smoke or drink, I see. I didn’t at your age, but I was living at home with strict parents. If I had a daughter...” She broke off, then said thoughtfully, “It didn’t look as if Mr. Westbrook was taken with you when you came here a few months ago. We all thought of you as just an eager child who’d gone starry-eyed over the South Seas. We were sorry to hear that you lost your father, but I suppose you’re the kind who’ll always have a protector. If it hadn’t been Mr. Westbrook it would have been someone else.”

  Lorna said firmly, “I’m not clinging and dependent, Mrs. Astley. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that my father was merely a monthly letter to me until less than a year ago. I’ve been accustomed to taking care of myself.”

  “Still, it must have been pleasant to be taken over by Paul Westbrook. He has money and position—a great reputation in these islands, and not only as a lady-killer.”

  “Lady-killer?” echoed Lorna mildly.

  “I don’t mean a philanderer—merely that women find him magnetic. We haven’t any unmarried young women in Panai but there are two or three on Main Island—daughters of government officials, and so on. He flatters them a little—he’s naturally masculine enough to enjoy the sense of conquest.”

  Lorna nodded, was rather amazed at the coolness with which she could handle this woman. Not that Mrs. Astley was subtle; she actually blundered slightly in her attempts, but Lorna was beginning to feel sorry for her, and it helped. Compassion leaves no room for fear, and Mrs. Astley, though she would have died rather than realize it, was really rather pitiful.

  Lorna sat on one of the dining-chairs, leant against the table so that she was facing the older woman. “I didn’t get to know you when I came here before. I don’t even know what planters’ wives do with themselves in these places. You’ll have to put me wise.”

  Soothed by the drink and Lorna’s willingness to listen, Mrs. Astley dilated upon her lot. “I’ve lived in Panai for three years, and before that my husband was in charge of government plantations further west. I’ve hated it. Yet, you know, I can’t see myself ever settling in England. There’s something horribly petty that keeps me going, and that’s the awe and respect of my relations in England. I’m someone to them, the one member of the family who’s done something different. I’m the sister in the South Seas, the aunt who’s a rubber planter’s wife. Piffling, isn’t it—yet I get a big kick out of writing to them about our life here.”

  “But this life is strange, and you’re living it. I don’t think their admiration is silly; you’ve earned it, by being different and enduring monotony and heat and all the rest.” Lorna swiftly changed the topic. “Have you a garden, Mrs. Astley?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “I noticed you’re trying to make one. I had a go at it myself several years ago, but somehow it seemed pointless.” She nodded at the flower bowl. “Like those touches. Men never see them.”

  “But I love tropical flowers myself. And they do make this less of a bachelor’s room, don’t they?”

  “In a way, though there were flowers in here before you came. Miss Reynor brought an armful of orchids or gardenias every time she came over from Main Island. She was clever at arranging them, too.”

  Mrs. Astley finished her drink and let Lorna take her glass. She was about to say more, but Lorna spoke hurriedly.

  “Dinner may be rather late tonight, but I left Jake making some sandwiches for Mr. Ramsay. I’ll get them.”

  “Don’t bother for me...”

  But Lorna was already in the corridor, pressing fingers over hot eyelids. She walked into the kitchen, told herself that it was idiotic to take notice of Mrs. Astley. She was a gossip with too few listeners, a bored woman who hadn’t any sensibilities herself and did not recognize them in other people. It would have been better if Bill had simply apologized and left her alone, though she knew he hadn’t dared do that. He had done his best, but she did wish he had brought anyone but Mrs. Astley.

  She took her time about the arrangement of the sandwiches on a dish, but the woman couldn’t be left too long. In fact, when Lorna re-entered the living room Mrs. Astley was poking inquisitive fingers among the books in the case. She agreed that it would be nice to have another spot, accepted a sandwich and found a different chair, so that her view was altered. But her mind was one-track.

  “I suppose you’ll be meeting the Governor soon?” she said, as she nibbled. “Did he send you a wedding present?”

  “No.” Lorna couldn’t think of other words to soften the negative.

  “I expect he’s huffed. After all, you’re very young and haven’t any social position—or hadn’t, before you married. He thinks the world of Paul Westbrook. Were you thrilled—to be marrying such a man and into that family?”

  How did one parry this kind of probing? All Lorna could be sure of was that she must say nothing to let Paul down in any way; that was more important than anything else.

  She said evenly, “I didn’t think about the Garfields. It was enough that Paul wanted to marry me.”

  Mrs. Astley had swallowed the second drink, and now she laughed discordantly. “You’re just a gullible girl. He can do as he likes with you and you don’t really matter. Yet he finds you very convenient. After all, a marriage is a fait accompli, isn’t it? Gets him out of other entanglements!”

  Lorna was pale. “You hadn’t better go any further, Mrs. Astley. I’m anxious to be friendly with everyone here.”

  The woman’s pale eyes blinked and she had the grace to look a little foolish. “You musn’t mind me ... Lorna, isn’t it? I get worked up at times because of the injustices my husband has had to suffer. Mr. Westbrook passed him over, you know—he brought in Bill Ramsay as his assistant instead of stepping up my husband. It leaves us down among the superintendents ... but I don’t suppose you know anything about it.”

  “No, I don’t,” said Lorna gently. “I expect at the time Paul did what he thought was best for the plantations. Do have another sandwich. And would you like some coffee?”

  “No coffee, thanks. Seeing that I’ve started with gin I’ll stick to it. I don’t drink much in my own house—it’s a bad example.”

  Lorna wished she wouldn’t drink here, either. She made the gin and lime a small one, topped it with plenty of soda. She mentioned that she would like to do some embroidery and asked if Mrs. Astley could tell her where to buy linen and silks. The woman was informative.

  “And when you come round to replacing these curtains,” she added, “you can get batik, specially dyed to the color you choose and patterned just how you want it. It fades, of course, but seeing that you have a veranda straight outside the windows it will last till you’re tired of it. That’s the trouble here—you get tired of things and can’t replace them with anything very different.” She finished her drink too quickly, let out another of those thin sighs. “I shouldn’t be talking to a young bride like this. You’re full of eagerness and hope, and I’ve lost all I ever had. I did feel brighter for a while, when the other assistant left and it seemed we were going up in the social scale, but now life
seems drearier than it ever was. If only the chief had married Miss Reynor things might have looked up a little.”

  Mrs. Astley didn’t seem to realize that what she had said was in execrable taste; obviously, she had only spoken her thoughts aloud. In an attempt to ignore the uneven beating of her pulses, Lorna went to the gramophone and picked up a record she had played earlier, slipped it back into its polythene case. She closed the gramophone, tidied the side table and then offered Mrs. Astley another cigarette.

  She heard herself asking, “Who is this Miss Reynor?”

  Mrs. Astley looked sleepily surprised. “I thought you knew! I wonder why Mr. Westbrook hasn’t told you about her? That’s awfully queer.” She paused. “Kyrle Reynor is the Governor’s stepdaughter; her mother is Lady Alys. Everyone thought Miss Reynor and Paul Westbrook were almost engaged, and certainly the Governor and his wife were pushing as hard as they could. But I told my husband that Mr. Westbrook didn’t really want to marry her—I told him the reason, too,” with a ghastly attempt at playfulness, “but I can’t tell you. I’ve got my own theory about it all.”

  ‘It’s silly to discuss it, really,” said Lorna, vexed that her voice should have gone husky. “It’s getting rather late. Will your husband worry about you?”

  “He knows where I am. There’s no car to take me home, anyway.” Mrs. Astley looked at the slender youthfulness of the girl who was bending to shake up a cushion, she saw soft young hair brushed back above pale pink ears, red lips set in a smile, a delicate temple, a wide forehead. Bitterness and envy made her reckless, welled up into her voice.

  “I don’t want to be cruel to you, Lorna, but I think you should accept from the beginning that you may be only a temporary wife. I know a great deal more than I’m able to tell you, but you can be sure of this: the pressure from the Governor was making things difficult for Mr. Westbrook, and the only way to halt it was to turn up with a fiancée ... or a wife. You were just right for his purpose—young and manageable, grateful for his pity. You’ll serve his purpose now, and when he’s ready for the next step, he’ll take it—regardless of you.”

  “Mrs. Astley, this is a ridiculous conversation!”

  The other bridled. “Not so ridiculous! You’ve been flattering yourself. You’re totally ignorant about Panai and Main Island, the social life and undercurrents, and if I’m not mistaken Paul Westbrook will keep you that way. Why didn’t you go with him to Main Island today? For the same reason that you won’t go with him next time, or the next. He’s going to keep you apart so that he can drop you easily.” The woman faltered, softened slightly. “I’m on your side, Lorna. Why should that man have everything his own way? He has a code of behaviour which keeps him always at the top, always in command of a situation. Even I ... I find myself liking him, when really I hate him for what he’s done to my husband and me, here in Panai. I ... hope I haven’t said too much.”

  But she had, far too much. Glass splinters seemed to be coursing through Lorna’s veins and there was a rough salty sensation in her throat. How she would have replied to Mrs. Astley she never knew.

  A car pulled up outside, and then another. Men’s voices, steps in the veranda, and Paul came in with Bill Ramsay.

  Paul was smiling slightly, his manner suave. “Got back rather earlier than I thought I would. Very good of you to keep Lorna company, Mrs. Astley. How are you these days?”

  “Very well,” came the faint reply.

  “Good. We must arrange a dinner some time soon. I really do appreciate your spending an hour or two with Lorna.” He turned to Bill. “Thanks a lot for acting so promptly on that report. Will you take Mrs. Astley home?”

  He went out with them to the jeep, spoke a few more smooth words to Mrs. Astley and raised a genuine smile on her unpainted lips. Then he stood back and waved, strode up into the living room. It was empty, and he looked at the bottle and glasses, the ashtray, the plate of sandwiches left there as Lorna would never leave them unless...

  He turned and walked down the corridor, knocked on her bedroom door and opened it

  CHAPTER THREE

  HASTILY, as the door swung wide, Lorna picked up a comb and raised it to her hair. She looked across the room at Paul, closed her eyes momentarily as he switched on the ceiling light. The action was typical of him, it was part of the way he had of speaking without wasting words. Let’s have some light on the subject, he was saying in effect. Lorna braced herself.

  “I didn’t expect you yet. You caught me a little untidy,” she said, just a wee bit shakily.

  “You don’t look untidy to me,” he dug his hands into his pockets, “but you don’t look right, either. What was happening between you and Mrs. Astley?”

  “We were talking.”

  “Did you have a drink with her?”

  “No. There were two used glasses because I gave her a clean one later.”

  “I wouldn’t mind you having a drink—you know that—but when she has someone to drink with she can’t stop. At heart, I believe, she’s quite a sound woman, but she has the unfortunate habit of letting herself go occasionally. Mrs. Astley’s not to be blamed for it, because she seems to be one of those people who are cut out for disappointments. I’m sorry she was the best Bill could rustle up.”

  “I didn’t mind.”

  “Yes, you did,” he said abruptly. “What did you talk about?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “Gardens, curtaining, embroidery.”

  “What else?”

  Lorna felt much older, and cold inside. “The disenchantments of marriage,” she said.

  The blue glance narrowed. “That’s the hell of a subject to get on to—at your age. I’ll see that you’re never alone with her again.”

  “Does not discussing things help one to forget they exist?”

  His hands came out of his pockets. “If you want to discuss marriage,” he said, “you’ll do it with me, and not with some disillusioned woman who wants to get at you because you’re young and fresh and have your life in front of you. I forbid you to speak about such things with Mrs. Astley!”

  It seemed to Lorna that someone else was speaking with her own voice, someone experienced and unhappy. “Mrs. Astley is more than disillusioned,” she said, “She’s hurt, deeply hurt ... and you’re the cause. Her husband...”

  “I know all about it—I appointed Bill Ramsay instead of promoting Astley. Bill happens to be a much better type for the job, and Astley’s far more valuable where he is. I don’t mix rubber production with sentiment, and Astley’s wife is his own affair. He himself sees the wisdom of remaining senior superintendent, but his wife has prestige on the brain. Lorna, why did you run out of the living room?”

  “To tidy my hair. I was going back directly.”

  “That’s not true, but leave it.” He came closer, but there was still a yard between them. Casually he asked, “Did you miss me today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds as if you were glad to be alone. I hope you haven’t been thinking too much.”

  “It’s only by thinking that you get at the truth of things.” She drew in her lip. “How did you get on in Main Island?”

  A shrug. “So-so. I shan’t have to go over again for about three weeks.”

  “Did you see your uncle?”

  He nodded. “He sent his regards. The old chap has strained a muscle in his leg and he’s chafing against inactivity.”

  She turned and laid the comb on the dressing chest. “What did he say about me?”

  “Not much—I didn’t give him a chance.” He was brusque again. “Forget about those people over there for a while. The way we’re placed, you ought to have enough on your mind, without complications.”

  Had this been happening a couple of hours ago, before Mrs. Astley had come into her life, Lorna would have given him a candid hazel glance and a light query. But she was still tingling from those sharp little fragments of knowledge dealt out by the older woman. She did look at Paul fleetingly, but all she saw was his le
an angular face and penetrating blue stare. Because he wouldn’t tolerate anything incomprehensible under his roof he had to attack every situation almost before it materialized.

  She moved a fraction. “I won’t mention the subject again till you do. You must be needing a meal. I’ll speak to Jake.”

  To get to the door she had to pass him, and unconsciously she took care not to touch him. Without looking at him again, she went out and down to the kitchen. There, she told Jake he must hurry the dinner, and herself decorated the jellies which were chilling in the paraffin fridge. She cleared the living room table and set it, and when Paul came in, smelling of after-shaving lotion and wearing slacks and a white shirt, she got out the whisky and soda and fetched some ice.

  While she moved she thought hardly at all, but now there was no reason for movement, and she had to sit where Paul placed her chair, near a reading lamp. He mixed an iced lemon drink for her and deliberately, while she watched, he splashed a little whisky into the top of the glass.

  “Hardly enough to alter the taste,” he said, “but you’ll like it. Drink up.”

  In Lorna’s opinion the alien flavoring spoiled the lemon, but she drank obediently and said it wasn’t at all bad. Jake came in, bearing a dish of fishballs, and the meal progressed normally. When it was over Paul went out to the tourer and came back loaded with parcels and magazines.

  “They were expecting some new records in the general store over there, so I left an order,” he said. “This is a packet of books—novels you might like and a couple of biographies. The square parcel is a work-box affair—you’ll probably prefer it to that cardboard box full of rubbish. By the way, thanks for sewing the back-strap on my grey bush shirt.”