The Wind and the Spray by Joyce Dingwell

with him. She could not. She was considering David; considering very seriously.
    “I’d never thought much about marrying,” she admitted at length.
    “I’d never thought much myself.”
    “Oh, yes, you had. You had decided against it.”
    “A man can alter his mind, circumstances can alter it.”
    “What circumstances?”
    “Nathalie going finally and for all time ... my way out through you blocked because society imposes certain obligations on people. Those circumstances,” Nor replied. “I’m in need of you, Laurel, you’re the right person for this island, for this job. The women here respect you, you are a standard to them, an incentive, they would copy you, they would really begin to settle in.”
    “And me?” Laurel said a little indistinctly. “What about me?” Her cigarette had gone out. He took it from her lips, lit it and put it back again, his eyes never leaving hers.
    “You like it here,” he stated, “I know you do. I’ve seen you turn round and look out to the sea. I saw your eyes the night Mummy Reed died when you lifted your glass and said, ‘To the wind and the spray.’ ”
    “Yes,” admitted Laurel, “I do like it here.” She waited to hear what else he had to say.
    “You would only stand to gain,” Nor resumed. “As well as the money that I said was one of woman’s aims you would have the other as well, the married status. Status”—he looked at her sharply—“without obligation, do you understand?”
    “No.”
    “I would ask nothing of you, nothing, Laurel, only your co-operation towards the end I’m after. Then there’s your brother—”
    “Yes?”
    “You could have him here with you. I would br ing him out. It’s a healthy climate, it could put him on his feet.” A voice, that like that last time must have been hers but did not seem so, murmured, “All that—and David as well.”
    A long moment went by. Nor moved a little restlessly. The oilskin rustled harshly again.
    “I’m going down to the office,” he said. “Ridge has been working on the set, he believes he can get a message through at last.”
    “The—doctor?”
    “The minister.” The blue eyes flicked unmistakably at hers.
    “Well,” he asked. “What is it, mate—yes or no?”
    She said a little wildly, slightly hysterically, “If you could recite a service for Mummy Reed, probably you could marry me, too, without any minister.”
    His hand shot out and grasped hers. The hold was hard and firm. “Control yourself,” he said.
    She did, but with difficulty. Everything, she thought, was moving far too fast.
    “It’s not every day a woman gets proposed to,” she defended
    “I don’t make a habit of proposing every day myself.” She detached herself from his grasp and crossed to stand at the window. She could not see anything at all but rain, rain, rain.
    But something inside her seemed to keep time with the rain. It will be right, it will be right, it will be right, it said.
    She turned to Nor and said aloud, in wonderment yet in quiet certainty, “It will be right.”
    “You mean yes, Laurel?”
    “Yes. I mean that.”
    Another moment went by. “Good.” Nor inclined his head. “Any questions?” he asked.
    “Questions?”
    “Apart from money, which will remain as it is now, apart from your brother whom I promise to bring out, apart from — ” He looked remindingly at her.
    “Children,” she ventured bravely.
    “Children?” He frowned, thinking she was meaning Nathalie’s and Peter’s girls. “They’ll be O.K. They’ll manage along. After all, they’re none of our business.”
    “Whose, then?” She turned on him quite angrily. “They are our children, aren’t they? I mean” — flushing vividly — “I’m not a child myself, Nor, I do realize that complying to a social obligation doesn’t give me a right to expect to live as I did before ... I mean ... I really mean .. .”
    The blue eyes were narrowed, but they were laughing ... actually laughing at