The Hasty Marriage. Бетти Нилс

that afternoon and there was plenty of cheese, and now she poked round in the old-fashioned larder for ingredients with which to make a salad; apples and a tomato or two, a lettuce and a providential head of celery—she mixed a dressing for it, put the soufflé into the oven and went to lay the table.

      The dining room looked cosy, for she had had the forethought to light a small fire there; its rather shabby old-fashioned furniture looked pleasant in the light of the shaded lamp over the big mahogany table, the silver shone in it too, and when she had finished she looked at it with satisfaction and then ran upstairs to her room to tidy herself before putting out the drinks. Her room was at the back of the house, square and airy and furnished with the white-painted furniture of her childhood. She sat down before her dressing-table glass, making no attempt to do her face or hair, but staring at her reflection with a critical eye. She wasn’t exactly plain, but she wasn’t pretty either. Her mouse-brown hair was fine and silky and very long, but as she usually wore it piled on top of her head, its beauty was scarcely seen, and although her eyes were nice they weren’t in the least spectacular. Her nose and mouth were just ordinary, and although her figure was pretty she was barely of middle height, and as she tended to dress in an unassuming manner it was seldom that anyone took a second glance at her.

      But her mouselike appearance was deceptive; she was a clever girl and a splendid nurse, holding a Ward Sister’s post at St Anne’s hospital in London, highly prized by the people she worked with and for. Besides, she was a good housewife and cook, got on well with animals and children and was liked by everyone. But she also had a fine temper when roused to anger, which wasn’t often, and could be, on occasion, extremely pig-headed. She had long ago come to terms with herself and accepted life as it came, and if it wasn’t quite what she had hoped it would be, no one heard her say so. She spoke to her reflection now:

      ‘It’s a good thing that you’re going back to St Anne’s in the morning, my girl, before you start getting silly ideas into your head—out of sight, out of mind, and don’t you forget it.’ She nodded sternly at herself, smoothed her hair, powdered her undistinguished nose and went back downstairs, where she was greeted with the news that Doctor van Meerum had accepted Joyce’s invitation to stay the night and go on to London in the morning. It vexed her very much to hear her sister declare: ‘You can give Laura a lift,’ with the certainty of one accustomed to having her every wish granted; she wasn’t in the least deceived by his polite agreement to do this—he wanted to please Joyce…

      Laura had plenty of opportunity to observe Doctor van Meerum during supper. His manners were nice and he had undoubted charm; he maintained a steady flow of small talk without monopolising the conversation, said very little about himself, gave his full attention to any remarks addressed to him and showed a sense of humour which delighted her. All the same he was unable to prevent his dark eyes dwelling upon Joyce whenever the opportunity occurred, and his smile, when their eyes met, would have set any girl’s heart beating faster. It annoyed Laura that she had no control over that organ and was forced to suffer its thumping and jumping. It almost stopped altogether when they had finished their meal at last and she began to clear the table as the company dispersed to the sitting room, for he turned round at the door to look at her and then walked back into the room, saying, ‘You must let me help you…’

      She had no chance to say yes or no, for Joyce had turned round too and cried with careless affection, ‘Darling, I’ll wash up, you’ve had all the chores to do—Reilof will help me.’ She turned a laughing face to his. ‘You will, won’t you? Although I don’t think you do it at home.’

      He laughed with her. ‘No, I can’t say I do, but I see no reason why I shouldn’t try my hand at it.’ He added, with a quick kindly glance at Laura: ‘You must be wanting a chance to talk to your godfather.’

      She pinned a cheerful, pleased expression on to her features and agreed untruthfully that there was nothing she wanted more, and slipped away to run upstairs and make up the bed in one of the spare rooms.

      The house, although not large, rambled a good deal, with several rather poky passages, unnecessary steps and a variety of windows. The room she went into had a square bay overlooking the flat Essex countryside, flooded in moonlight, and she stood for a minute or two to admire it before she pulled the curtains and began to make the bed. That done, and the room ready for their unexpected guest, she went along to her own room once more to pack her overnight bag; she had had a long weekend and it was a pity that her godfather had arrived only a few hours before she would have to leave. Still, she would be able to come home again at the end of the week, she had Friday evening and a free day on Saturday and it was only thirty or so miles from London. Perhaps Joyce would be free to drive in to Chelmsford and meet her train; if not she could always get old Bates, who ran a taxi service in Rodwell, to fetch her.

      She went downstairs again and found the two older gentlemen happily deep in medical matters and no sign of the other two. She fetched the petit-point she was stitching and settled down at a small work table, a lamp at her shoulder, and began to work on it. It was almost two hours later when Joyce and the doctor came in and her sister explained, ‘It was such a heavenly moonlit evening, we went for a walk—I hope you didn’t miss us?’

      Her father paused momentarily to look at her fondly. ‘I can’t say that we have, my dear, and Laura has been so engrossed in that embroidery of hers that I don’t suppose she has either.’

      Laura looked up and smiled in the general direction of everyone. ‘Such a nice peaceful occupation,’ she murmured.

      ‘Oh, Laura,’ Joyce laughed, ‘you sound just like an old maid, and you’re not—at least, not just yet.’

      There was general laughter at her joke and Laura joined in, although it wasn’t a joke really—Doctor van Meerum would know, if he hadn’t realised it already, that she was getting a little long in the tooth. But it wasn’t that which hurt, it was knowing that her sister considered her past the age to attract a man’s interest and found it amusing.

      They set out after breakfast the following morning, she and Doctor van Meerum, in his Aston Martin, and although she had spent a more or less sleepless night, she perked up at the sight of the elegant car—she hadn’t seen it the previous evening and she had imagined that he would drive something far more staid; he hadn’t struck her as being the type of man to like fast cars.

      She couldn’t have been more mistaken; he was a superb driver, fast and careful and relaxed. She sat back and enjoyed it all, keeping quiet because she sensed that he didn’t want to talk much. They were halfway there and hadn’t exchanged more than a few words when he asked suddenly: ‘Joyce—she tells me that she has just left her job. Does she intend to become a nurse too?’

      Joyce had left several jobs if the truth were to be told; she became bored easily, or the office was too small, the people she worked with not to her liking or she wasn’t paid enough… But Laura was a loyal sister.

      ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she told him carefully, ‘it upsets her to see people who are ill—she’s young and it’s difficult to decide what one wants to do sometimes. I expect she’ll stay at home…’

      ‘You didn’t, you decided,’ he persisted.

      ‘Yes, but nursing was something I wanted to do.’ She didn’t tell him that she had wanted to be a doctor, but somehow it had all fallen through because Joyce had to be educated at the best schools. It had taken her a long time to get over the disappointment. But that had been ten years ago and in that time she had become content enough, but always cherishing the hope that she would meet the man she would want to marry and who would want to marry her—and now she had, and a lot of good it had done her. She roused herself from her thoughts to hear her companion say, ‘Joyce is a very lovely girl, she must have any number of men friends.’

      ‘Oh, rather, but not one special one.’

      ‘And you?’ he asked, to surprise her.

      She told him no rather shortly and briskly changed the conversation. ‘Are you going to be in England long?’

      They were driving more slowly now, with London’s outskirts creeping