same chances. ‘Did you love your wife?’ The question had popped out before she had been able to stop it and she watched the bleak look on his face as it slowly chilled her.
He said with a bitter little sneer which hurt her, ‘All women are curious…’
‘Well, I’m not all women,’ she assured him sharply, ‘and I’m not in the least curious’—another lie—‘but it’s something I should have to know—you said you wanted to be honest.’
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You’re quite right. One day we will talk about her. Will it suffice for the moment if I tell you that our marriage was a mistake?’ He became his usual slightly reserved self again. ‘Now that I have told you so much about myself, I do not see that you can do anything else but marry me.’
She answered his smile and was tempted to say yes at once, but common sense still had a firm place inside her lovely head; she would have to think about it. She told him so and he agreed unconcernedly. ‘I shall see you on Thursday,’ he observed as he went to the door. ‘I’ll leave you to finish your writing. Good night, Deborah.’
She achieved a calm ‘Good night, Mr van Doorninck,’ and he paused on the way out to say: ‘My name is Gerard, by the way, but perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that until Thursday.’
Deborah did no more writing; she waited until she heard the swing doors close after him and then shovelled the books and papers into a drawer, pell-mell. They could wait until tomorrow—she had far too much on her mind to be bothered with stupid matters like off-duty and laundry and instruments which needed repairing. She pinned on her cap anyhow, found her shoes at last, locked the theatre, hung the keys on the hook above the door, and went down to supper. Several of her friends were as late as she was; they greeted her with tired good nature and broke into a babble of talk to which she didn’t listen until the Accident Room Sister startled her by saying, ‘Deb, whatever is the matter? I’ve asked you at least three times what van Doorninck did with those three cases we sent up, and you just sit there in a world of your own.’
‘Sorry,’ said Deborah, ‘I was thinking,’ a remark which called forth a little ripple of weary laughter from everyone at the table. She smiled round at them all and plunged obligingly into the complexities of the three patients’ operations.
‘No off-duty?’ someone asked when she had finished.
Deborah shook her head. ‘No—I’ll make it up some time.’
‘He works you too hard,’ said a pretty dark girl from the other side of the table. ‘Cunning wretch, I suppose he turned on the charm and you fell for it.’
The Accident Room Sister said half-jokingly, ‘And what wouldn’t you give to have the chance of doing just that, my girl? The handsome Mr van Doorninck is a confirmed bachelor, to the sorrow of us all, and the only reason Deb has lasted so long in theatre is because she never shows the least interest in him, so he feels safe with her. Isn’t that right, Deb?’
Deborah blushed seldom; by a great effort of will she prevented herself from doing so now. She agreed airily, her fingers crossed on her lap, and started on the nourishing rice pudding which had been set before her. She wouldn’t have rice pudding, she promised herself. Perhaps the Dutch…she pulled her thoughts up sharply; she hadn’t decided yet, had she? It would be ridiculous to accept his offer, for it wouldn’t be the kind of marriage she would want in the first place, on the other hand there was the awful certainty that if she refused him she would never see him again, which meant that she would either remain single all her days or marry someone else without loving him. So wasn’t it better to marry Mr van Doorninck even if he didn’t love her? At least she would be with him for the rest of her life and he need never find out that she loved him; he hadn’t discovered it so far, so why should he later on?
She spooned the last of the despised pudding, and decided to marry him, and if she had regrets in the years to come she would only have herself to blame. It was a relief to have made up her mind, although perhaps it had been already made up from the very moment when he had startled her with his proposal, for hadn’t it been the fulfilment of her wildest dreams?
She retired to her room early on the plea of a hard day and the beginnings of a headache, determined to go to bed and think the whole preposterous idea over rationally. Instead of which she fell sound asleep within a few minutes of putting her head on the pillow, her thoughts an uncontrollable and delicious jumble.
She had time enough to think the next day, though. Wednesday was always a slack day in theatre even though they had to be prepared for emergencies. But there were no lists; Deborah spent the greater part of the day in the office, catching up on the administrative side, only sallying forth from time to time to make sure that the nurses knew what they were about. She went off duty at five o’clock, secretly disappointed that Mr van Doorninck hadn’t put in an appearance—true, he hadn’t said that he would, but surely he would feel some impatience? Upon reflection she decided that probably he wouldn’t, or if he did, he would take care not to let it show. She spent the evening washing her hair and doing her nails, with the vague idea that she needed to look her best when he arrived at ten o’clock the next morning.
Only he didn’t come at ten. She was in theatre, on her knees under the operating table because one of the nurses had reported a small fault in its mechanism. She had her back to the door and didn’t hear him enter; it was the sight of his large well-polished shoes which caused her to start up, knocking her cap crooked as she did so. He put out a hand and helped her to her feet without effort, rather as though she had been some small slip of a girl, and Deborah exclaimed involuntarily, ‘Oh—I’m quite heavy. I’m too tall, you must have noticed.’ Her eyes were on his tie as she babbled on: ‘I’m so big…!’
‘Which should make us a well-suited couple,’ he answered equably. ‘At least, I hope you will agree with me, Deborah.’
She put a hand up to her cap to straighten it, not quite sure what she should answer, and he caught her puzzled look. ‘Not quite romantic enough?’ he quizzed her gently. ‘Have dinner with me tonight and I’ll try and make amends.’
She was standing before him now, her lovely eyes on a level with his chin. ‘I don’t know—that is, I haven’t said…’
His heavy-lidded eyes searched hers. ‘Then say it now,’ he commanded her gently. It seemed absurd to accept a proposal of marriage in an operating theatre, but there seemed no help for it. She drew breath:
‘Yes, I’ll marry you, Mr van Doorninck.’ She uttered the absurd remark in a quiet, sensible voice and he laughed gently.
‘Gerard, don’t you think? Can you manage seven o’clock?’
Her eyes left his chin reluctantly and met his. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Good. I’ll fetch you—we’ll go to the Empress if you would like that.’
Somewhere very super, she remembered vaguely. ‘That will be nice.’ An inadequate answer, she knew, but he didn’t appear to find it amiss; he took her two hands lightly in his and said: ‘We’ll have a quiet talk together—it is essential that we should understand each other from the beginning, don’t you agree?’
It sounded very businesslike and cool to her; perhaps she was making a terrible mistake, but was there a worse mistake than letting him go away for ever? She thought not. For want of anything better to say, she repeated, ‘That will be nice,’ and added, ‘I must go and scrub, you have a list as long as your arm.’
It stretched longer than an arm, however, by the time they had finished. The second case held them up; the patient’s unexpected cardiac arrest was a surprise which, while to be coped with, flung a decided spanner in the works. Not that Mr van Doorninck allowed it to impede his activities—he continued unhurriedly about his urgent business and Deborah, after despatching Staff to the other end of the table to help the anaesthetist in any way he wished, concentrated upon supplying her future husband’s wants. The patient rallied, she heard Mr van Doorninck’s satisfied grunt and relaxed herself; for a patient to die on