Too Young to Marry Read online

  His hand slipped over hers on the table. “The last thing I want is to distress you. You’re intelligent, Lorna, and I’m counting on that intelligence to bridge a few other gaps. But nothing except time and experience can make you older, and I certainly wouldn’t demand anything you’re incapable of giving. You understand?”

  Her eyelids lowered, she answered, “Yes. But no one marries unless they’re sure they’re in love.”

  “Well,” he said reasonably, “let’s say we can’t wait that long, but we’re fairly sure it will come. We’ll get married to satisfy the neighbours, but privately remain only engaged till we’re certain of each other. That way, you’ll be my responsibility.”

  “And what will you gain?”

  “A sweet little house-mate and eventually a charming housekeeper.”

  “Supposing,” said Lorna hesitantly, “you were to meet someone after you’re tied, someone you ... really love.”

  “I shan’t,” he told her dryly. “You’re the uncertain element, not I. I’ve lived longer, and know myself very well. But I haven’t any doubts about either of us. Now drink your coffee. When you’ve had it you must go up to your room and rest. I’ll do some business this afternoon and meet you down in the lounge before dinner. And Lorna,” he squeezed the hand he had been holding and then released it, “don’t think about it too intensively. Just tell yourself that there’s a man you like very much, and who’s fond enough of you to want to marry you.”

  “Paul ... there’s just one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “If my father hadn’t ... gone, you’d have let me return to England with him, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m not so sure. You both promised you’d come back here for a while before leaving the Pacific for good!”

  She couldn’t tell whether he was teasing or implying a truth. But he looked so strong and self-assured sitting there, with muted sunlight across the coppery hair and a dark intentness in the blue gaze. What heaven it would be to have him always close; his protective presence, his affectionate scoffing, his vitality and commanding strength. She liked him tremendously, of course she did, and in a way it even amounted to love. But love was something too new and gigantic to be contemplated in a hurry.

  She said quietly, “I’m not agreeing to it, Paul—not until we’ve both thought it over for a long time. It would be too terrible if we did marry, and then you found me inadequate.”

  The blue glance was keen. “You’re not afraid of finding me inadequate?”

  “How could I be? You’re overwhelmingly everything a woman could want in a man. I think I even had a bit of a crush on you from the beginning—you know the kind of thing?”

  “Yes, I know,” in the dry tones. “Marriage demands rather more than that, but we’re not getting married, except by ceremony. We’re becoming engaged.”

  “But an engagement can be ended.”

  “True,” he said lightly, “but you’re not the sort of girl who’d enter into any kind of relationship with the idea of breaking it off if a problem arose. You’re very young, Lorna, but steadfast as they come. You admit that you need me?”

  “Oh, yes!” tremulously. “But I couldn’t bear you to make sacrifices for me and then find out...”

  “Don’t be an idiot. I’m sacrificing nothing, and eventually I shall be gaining a great deal. For the present I only want to take care of you and make you happy.” He pushed back his chair, ready to stand up. “No more talk. Go and rest—I’ll see you this evening.”

  He was casual and kind as he went with her to the foot of the rather seedy staircase, gave her the room-key and waved towards the upper regions. He had signed the hotel register for her, he said, and made sure that she had been given one of the best rooms, though it might not be too clean, at that. But he’d see to it that she needn’t stay here any longer than was absolutely necessary.

  She nodded without speaking and left him. Half-way up the stairs her knees weakened, but she ignored them and reached the upper corridor with her back straight and her chin well up. She found her room, entered it and closed the door. Her cases were on a stool, one on top of the other, and without looking about her at the chipped white paint of the bed and dressing-table, the antiquated wash-basin with a wooden cupboard underneath, the baggy wicker chair, she unlocked the top case and began to unpack it.

  Half an hour later she half undressed, folded the coarse quilt and lay down on the bed with her hands under her head. She stared at the damp stains on the ceiling, at a bevy of night-moths clustered up there in the darkest corner. Staying here with her father she had laughed at the faint grubbiness, the pinging of mosquitoes, the gurgling from decrepit waterpipes, the cockroaches and fleas, the blandly lazy service. He had hardly noticed such things, had never owned a house in the South Seas though he had occasionally borrowed or rented one; because he had become impervious to the pests and general seediness she had accepted them herself, unquestionably.

  Now, though, they were starkly obvious; through Paul, everything was so brightly focused that even lying there alone she became bewildered and excited. Marry Paul? It was incredible, yet that had been his suggestion. Not only a suggestion; he had sounded as if he had meant it to happen. He would take her to the plantation and they would belong together. In time, he would love her, really love her, and everything would come right.

  But was it possible for a man of thirty-two to find the things he needed in someone so young and unfledged as Lorna Dennis? Supposing he found her lacking in some vital quality, became impatient with her, intolerant? But he wouldn’t. Paul wasn’t like that. He was the most generous man in the world, and a marvellous companion. He would be calm and instructive, he would laugh at her and with her, and inevitably they would grow close together.

  If only she knew more about men! True, she had learned a little since leaving England; there had been a young man here and there on her travels with her father who had looked at her with more than casual appreciation, and one or two had even tried a light flirtation. She wished, now, that she had let herself be kissed just once; as it was, she was too new to it all.

  Yet, young and unlearned in the ways of love as she was, Lorna had no misgivings about her own feelings. Had she ever been tempted to dream of her ideal man, he would have been like Paul Westbrook; tall and masterful, keen-eyed and experienced, yet understanding and considerate. After she had left Panai with her father she had thought often about Paul, and wondered if he ever recalled the thin, brown-haired creature he had occasionally called “honey.” She had mentioned him once to Henry Dennis.

  “Paul Westbrook?” her father had said. “As you know, he’s quite someone on Panai—manages the whole of the rubber production on the island. Some people go under in the South Seas; some—like me—just manage to break even, and a very few thrive on the life and grow a character that’s like a steel blade. Paul’s one of the last sort. He’s used to lording it, but he hasn’t lost sight of the gentler side of life. I admire him.”

  And Lorna had admitted fervently and candidly that she admired him too. Admired and ... and loved him as much as was possible without knowing all the ramifications of love.

  Yes, she would marry him, if he really meant it. Even if her doubts had been stronger she wouldn’t have had the courage to go home alone, knowing that she might stay and share life with Paul.

  It had been heavenly to come to her father and belong to him; for a while it had been a bliss she had never known before. Then he was gone, leaving her adrift, and during those weeks at Boeleng much of her grief had been bound up in that knowledge. Perhaps because her youth had been spent in soulless surroundings, she had allowed too much importance to the fact of belonging to someone. But she couldn’t help it. She wanted a home and to be needed. Paul offered the home and it would be up to herself, when she had acquired a little more .wisdom, to make herself indispensable to him.

  She turned her face into the clean but musty-smelling pillow, felt its coolness against her hot chee
k. She couldn’t possibly go wrong in trusting herself to Paul.

  At five-thirty she had a bath, put on a printed silk frock and brushed her hair. She used lipstick and stood back to survey her reflection. Eyes wide apart but shadowed, a deepish forehead, high cheekbones, narrow jaw; a distinctly young figure, though the frock was well cut—one of the half-dozen she had bought in London just before sailing. Perhaps she ought to put on a little more make-up.

  At a quarter past six she was quite ready, and as she had had enough of the bedroom for a while she picked up the white bag and turned towards the door. In the same moment someone rapped, and automatically she said, “Come in!”

  It was Paul, in a tropical lounge suit with a white shirt and a dark brown tie. He was smiling confidently, and in a second her sudden fears were stilled.

  “Got through everything quicker than I thought. Feel all right?”

  She smiled and said, “I’m an awful trouble to you, aren’t I?”

  He laughed. “Not so much as you’re going to be, but I’ve always liked spice in my diet.” He came closer. “I’ve arranged everything, but I need your passport and birth certificate. Are you happy about things?”

  “If ... if you are.”

  “Fine.” He slipped a careless arm about her shoulders. “Come on, let’s go down and drink to us.”

  She said pleadingly, “Paul, how can I know I’m doing the right thing—for you as well as for me?”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it, to begin with. You’re sweet and full of affection—just see that all the sweetness and affection are directed my way, that’s all!” She said shakily, “I do love you, Paul.”

  “And I love you,” he said calmly, “so we’ve nothing to worry about. Let’s get that drink. I’m beginning to need one.”

  They were married two days later in a room in the government building, where a ceiling fan whirred ceaselessly and several island officials assisted the magistrate in a duty he seldom performed for white people. He was half French and half English, and as the ceremony ended he kissed his fingertips to the silent Lorna and offered congratulations to Paul. The certificate, enclosed in an envelope which was ornate with the official stamps, was handed to Lorna and straightway slipped into Paul’s pocket. There were thanks and handshakes, more good wishes, and then the couple were permitted to leave the premises.

  As they stood near the car in the noisy street, Paul looked down at her. She was wearing a plain modem frock in white silk and a small white cap with a single pink flower at the side. She held a posy of pink frangipani, held it very tightly. He took the posy from her, sniffed its fragrance and turned to hand it to a slant-eyed Melanesian girl who was watching them curiously.

  “Sorry to dispose of the trimmings so soon,” he said, as he put Lorna into her seat, “but frangipani can be a bit overpowering in a closed space, and for ourselves it’s better to forget the ceremony for a while. Take off your hat and relax. I’ve brought a picnic, but we’ll travel for an hour before we have it. Feeling fit?”

  “Yes, thank you, Paul.”

  As he set the car moving he gave her one of those sharp glances to which she was becoming accustomed. But he said nothing more, and as they left Panai and followed the tan-coloured gravel road towards the mountains, she felt slightly easier. She was conscious of the heavy gold band on her finger, remembered his mocking apology: “It’s the only kind available on the island, but if you find it cumbersome I’ll get someone to thin it down. There are plenty of craftsmen about.”

  Just faintly, the suggestion had jarred; she hadn’t known why. But she had soon forgotten it—wouldn’t have remembered it now if he hadn’t so unfeelingly got rid of the bouquet. Perhaps it was because she was nervy that she had these foolish thoughts. He had been splendid these last two days, companionable and gay, compassionate and comprehending when she spoke about her father, suave when he told her about the staff up at the plantations and the way she should behave with them.

  He hadn’t been lover-like, but ... well, in a way she had been grateful for that. There was plenty of time and it would come. It had to come. Her one rather nagging anxiety was that she would disappoint him.

  He spoke about the reed villages they passed. “You remember this road? When you came out to the plantation with your father I had quite a houseful. Bill Ramsay stayed on with me, you know, and moved out when his house was ready. He’s been looking after things for me during my absence.”

  “I did wonder what was happening. Has his wife joined him yet?”

  Paul shook his head, said negligently, “She wants a divorce. I’m in a buffer position between them.”

  “She’s actually on the island?”

  “No, she’s on Main Island, but I have to go over there occasionally, to meetings at the head office of the Rubber Corporation. Elise is always around, looking beautiful and doing nothing.”

  “Why does she want a divorce? Is there someone else?”

  “I expect so, honey. It’s the sort of thing that happens rather more out here than in civilized surroundings, but you don’t have to think about it. You’re not likely to meet Elise, anyway.”

  “But why does she stay so close to Bill? If she won’t come over and live with him, it’s unkind.”

  He shrugged. “I’m afraid that when people fall out of love they are unkind. Quite often they’re intentionally brutal. That’s love when it’s gone sour—or never quite existed.”

  She looked down at the fingers locked tightly together in her lap. “You know a lot about such things, don’t you?”

  “I’ve been around a good many years.”

  “You sound as if ... as if you don’t believe in romantic love.”

  “To be honest,” he said, “I’ve never met it. I’ve seen a couple come together for the first time in a tropical garden and fall like ninepins; I’ve seen a middle-aged man who seemed perfectly mated go bats over some girl he knew nothing about; I’ve seen marriages fall apart from what seemed to be no more than damp rot. The gentle kind of romance doesn’t stand much chance out here.”

  Lorna dared not put into words the thought which leapt to her mind. She sat there looking out at the jungle thickness of the breadfruit trees and coconut palms, the massed vines which climbed to the tree-tops and trailed their long streamers of leaves and purple flowers. The sun beat down on the road, but it wrested no sap or colour from the dense growth on either side.

  She saw a clearing where brown-skinned people in sarongs were lazily cutting bananas and loading them on to long poles for carrying over the shoulder. A mixture of Malay and Melanesian, these people, with a fine sense of humour and a love of brightness and gaiety. There were more of them on Panai than any other race, but they refused to work in the town. They liked a leisurely existence, time for talk and dressing up and their own highly technical form of making love. In the town there were Indian and Chinese shopkeepers, half-caste policemen, a few people of French and British extraction who ran the agencies for big business among the islands.

  Lorna watched the trees and let thoughts slip through her mind; not complicated thoughts but small facts about living on the island. Deep down, she was wishing with the intensity of desperation that the rest of the trip would pass quickly.

  But Paul was apparently unperturbed. In due course he stopped the car in the shade of some palms and got out the picnic basket. He gave her cheese and biscuits and fruit, coffee from a thermos, and lay back with a cigarette as if he were thoroughly at ease. Indeed, he was at ease, thought Lorna; as unmoved as though he had done this many times before and never yet regretted it.

  She packed up the picnic case and within an hour of stopping they were on their way again, and leaving the mountains behind. There were fields of taro and yams, expanses of rice, and then the rubber began. From here right to the northern coast ·of the island there was no variation in crop. Rubber, and yet more rubber, and all of it the property of the Panai Rubber Corporation. Bare earth beneath the thick green roof of bran
ches, trunks spaced like soldiers, with dried up scars and always a new one dripping latex into a metal cup. There was something soporific in the sight of mile upon mile of similar trees.

  It was two-thirty when they took the side road and ran along the front of the bungalow. Lorna knew the house, but new circumstances made her view it differently. It was square and white with a palm-leaf thatch coming well over the veranda which was three concrete steps above the path. Coir matting covered the porch, there were a couple of chairs further along in the veranda, but otherwise the place had a blank, expectant look.

  Even before she moved, her heart began to beat faster. She got out of the car quickly, before Paul could reach her, and came beside him. His smile at her was enigmatic, but he spoke almost carelessly.

  “Well, we’re home. My servant won’t be expecting us but he’ll soon discover that we’re here. Let’s decide a few things before he arrives.”

  As he made to move ahead of her she caught at his fingers; her own were squeezed but he didn’t look back. With his right hand he slipped the key into the lock and turned it. Then he drew her inside the cool dimness of the living-room and closed the door, released her hand so that he could pull up the reed blinds.

  He was still smiling impersonally. “You know the place so I don’t have to show you around. When you were here before you had my room, if you remember, and I shared the guest-room with your father. There are two beds in there, but it’s larger and more airy—it would be best for you. The third bedroom is rather choked with junk at the moment, but we’re not likely to need it.”

  “No? I thought you entertained rather often.”

  “I did.” He looked at a couple of unopened letters on the table and added casually, “We won’t go beyond giving an occasional meal for a while—not before you’re thoroughly accustomed to being Mrs. Westbrook. What’s the matter—did the name startle you?”