Will You Surrender?

by Joyce Dingwell

  She eyed his tweeds, so unmistakably Savile Row, with scorn. "Realizing, of course," she added, "that it was impossible for you to come in."

  He had fallen into step beside her. With her feet bare she was very small beside him, for he was a giant of a man. "Why do you dislike the English?" he asked.

  "I don't."

  "Then this dislike must be personal."

  "Are you surprised?"

  "For a person of your intelligence, yes."

  "What do you know of my intelligence?"

  "I know you have a teaching certificate and I believe you must have read a little. That was obvious by your triumphant offering of muffins and jam."

  She wheeled towards the track. As she went to pass he touched her arm. It was a light touch on the still damp flesh, but something about it was authoritative.

  "Just a moment," he said.

  "I'm sorry I cannot give you even that, Mr. Manning. Although our climate is sub-tropical it is amazing how chill the wind can blow after one comes from the surf. I never loiter as late as this in the afternoon when the sun is losing its warmth."

  For reply he took off his tweed jacket. In a moment, despite her protestations, it was around her shoulders. She could smell the maleness of it, the tobacco, the rubber bands, the usual masculine odds and ends.

  He was eyeing her with amusement. "It's not a good fit."

  She was annoyed because she realized what she must look like.

  "I'm not that cold," she protested. "I'm only cool enough to run up the track."

  "Perhaps, but I want to speak to you."

  Baitingly, she retorted, "You should have surfed with

  me then, though perhaps"—with a sidelong glance—"you would not know how to do that."

  He let the barb pass. She would learn.

  For the moment he had other things to tell, he thought patiently. He began:

  "Miss Prosset, once and for all I had nothing to do with your father's return to the Meadow House. Please believe me when I say so."

  She was silent a while, then—"It makes no difference. You took his place. I can never forgive that."

  "We have to live together—if perhaps not actually together as near to each other as the next house. Can't you call off your dogs?"

  "Is this an apology?"

  "It is a suggestion."

  "Then I have nothing to say, Mr. Manning. Here is your coat. Thank you. I'm going up the track."

  "Not yet." Again the touch, light but authoritative. "Aren't you finished?"

  "I haven't started. Come, let us sit on this rock."

  Ostensibly she could have escaped. Actually, she knew she was as tightly prisoned as if she was surrounded by four walls.

  As though reading her thoughts he nodded gravely. "Yes, Miss Prosset, it's no use your trying to run away."

  "What is it you want to say, Mr. Manning?"

  "Several things."

  As she raised her brows he said, "One, that sea—" and pointed to the heavy surf.

  "Well?"

  "On occasions like this, it is out of bounds."

  "What?" She could not help that. The calm impertinence of the man astounded her. What did he think he was? More than that, who did he think she was?

  Quietly, he answered her unspoken thoughts.

  "Like it or not, admit it or not, I am the Head of Galdang, and as such I shall decree when a sea is fit to swim in."

  "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  "Such as?"

  "A beach is public property," announced Gerry with triumph. "You may be king of Galdang but your saver-

  eignty ends at the rim of that sand." She flung out a still-wet hand.

  "Not in this instance." There was a note of finality in the man's voice. "Our ownership—Galdang's ownership goes back a long way. In the particular period in which Galdang was acquired, grants included foreshores. It isn't done these days. Perhaps here was the last time. Fortunate for Galdang, unfortunate for you."

  She wanted to call out, "I don't believe you," but she knew it probably was true. Whatever else she thought of him, she could see he was not a person who would have need to lie.

  "The water, too, is one of your possessions?" she asked coldly.

  "Foreshores extend a distance beyond the actual watermark. I'll look it up and let you know the exact depth."

  "It doesn't matter. It makes no difference. If I want to surf I'll surf. It has nothing to do with you."

  "Sorry, that is point two. With a sea like this you'll do as the boys do, stop on the beach."

  "I'll do nothing of the sort, Mr. Manning. You are not my master."

  "I shall be."

  She stared at him, incredulous. "What do you mean?" she said.

  "I'm sorry I have to break it so abruptly. I meant to edge up to it and get your assent first."

  "What assent?"

  "Your assent to join the staff of Galdang, in which case, of course, you will be under my supervision the same as the pupils."

  "You must be mad."

  "No, Miss Prosset."

  "Then you must be insanely optimistic."

  "Not insanely, not even unduly. I believe you will join our staff."

  "What—what makes you believe such an absurd thing?" "Compulsion—or perhaps it would be kinder to say obligation."

  "What do you mean?" Her matching acorn eyes were staring at him. They were wide, like pennies. He noticed that they had gold flecks.

  "Your father, Professor Prosset," he said quietly, "will

  start this term on a different basis. No longer will he be a full-time teacher, Miss Prosset—and that is where you will come in."

  "You mean—I'm to help Dad? But that wouldn't make me one of the staff—under your control."

  "You will not be helping your father. He is perfectly capable of attending a class himself."

  "But you just said he would be on a different basis." "So he will. He will have a curtailed time-table. He will not be expected to do so much."

  "Why?" If the eyes had seemed wide before, now they were saucers. "Is it—is it because he is not well?"

  Manning took up a stick and began tracing patterns in the sand. "You do jump to conclusions, don't you, Miss Prosset? No, it's not because your father is not well."

  The new principal looked down on the mosaic he had traced. It is more than being not well, he thought gravely. Prosset is a dying man. He had told the Professor that he thought Geraldine should be told the truth, but now he found himself agreeing with the old scholar. There was something oddly touching about the little face before him with its too-big eyes. There was something piteously vulnerable about the young and tender mouth. She was a scrap of a thing, fierce, a little tigerish, badly in need of discipline, but she was still only a scrap.

  "Then why?" she was asking.

  "He is getting on. He would like more leisure." "That doesn't sound like Dad."

  "Then let it sound like the Board, Miss Prosset. The Board require your father to curtail his lessons, in which case his salary is curtailed, and you must attend to the balance. Now do you understand?"

  It was brutal, he knew, but it had to be said in some way. Prosset has asked to be left in harness, and the only way to make that possible was to lighten his load. It had been Manning's idea that the daughter be engaged on the staff. That would keep the stipend on its present level, probably above it, and Prosset could remain in the place in which he had requested to be permitted to spend his last days—the Meadow House.

  "So—so they aren't satisfied," choked Gerry. "All these years he has given his all, and now—and now—"

  He wanted to touch her. Strangely enough, he wanted to comfort her, poor, bewildered, confused little girl.

  Aloud, he said rather roughly, "Cut out the dramatics. That's one class you will not be asked to take."

  "I am not taking any class."

  "Oh, yes, you are—unless you prefer to leave Galdang." "They would not do that."

  "They would not like
doing it, but boarding-schools, after all, are not run for the benefit of ageing professors, and—"

  "Stop it!" She had jumped to her feet. Her face beneath the tan was ashy.

  "I hate you," she said.

  With an almost lazy arm he pushed her back. "Pull yourself together," he advised.

  A moment went past. Gerry watched the pattern of the surf, the crash, swirl and withdrawal, with heavy lacklustre eyes.

  From the lilac horizon a ship was appearing. "Bringing onyx and turtle fins, cinnamon and joss sticks," she choked. She looked up at him "Of course, it was that."

  "What was?" His voice was leisured.

  "The onyx and turtle fins in the middle of quadratic equations. Well, what if he did? The boys were none the worse for that."

  She was not prepared for his mirth. It boomed out of him like the waves on the rocks. It sent lines, like the wind scoring the sand, radiating from his eyes.

  "You atom," he laughed.

  Presently he said, "You haven't grown up, have you? I thought that the first time I saw you and almost spanked you for being a delinquent daughter of the staff. Now the lack of years will be an asset, not a liability. I like a young teacher for a young class."

  As she looked at him dumbfounded he finished, "And I intend you to take over the new pre-prep."

  Her curiosity overrode her indignant silence.

  "We have no pre-prep."

  "We shall have after next term. It was proposed and passed at the last meeting. Galdang, for the first time in its existence, will enrol boys from five, not eight, and the first teacher will be the daugher of the Meadow House."

  "I—I don't believe you."

  "Please yourself. It was only my duty to tell you." "Where shall you put them? How many? What ages?" "A new building will start almost immediately. We already have had twenty-seven applications. From five, as I

  said, to eight."

  She had almost forgotten her animosity. Fearfully, but a little eagerly, she said, "I don't think I could do it."

  "Why not? You have your certificate and it is, I have ascertained, the written evidence of as extremely good pass."

  "Dad must have shown it to you."

  "He did."

  "He—he knows all this?"

  "Yes, he knows."

  "He is in agreement?"

  "Very much in agreement." The Professor had been eager for it, remembered Manning. He had wanted its stability for his daughter after he had passed on.

  "I can't absorb it all," she said after a few moments. "Dad was always so satisfied with me—with my running of the house. He never wanted me to work. He just wanted me to take the place of Mother—"

  Harshly, deliberately harshly, Manning said, "So you sponged on him, and he encouraged it until he began to realize it was getting too much."

  "I—I didn't know." Her voice was uneven. He caught the break in it but did not soften.

  "No, you didn't. However, you know now. You know there is no alternative. Either you do your bit or the Professor is struck off the list. Not just like that, perhaps—undoubtedly there would be a farewell present, a valedictory —but it would all add up to the same thing, trying to make ends meet in a small flat somewhere, not living the life he wants in a comfortable, beloved house.

  "On the subject of the house, there is another point—the furniture. Do you find it oppressive, that dark, heavy mahogany?"

  "It's good quality," she said stiffly, determined to go against him

  He raised his brows at that and she bit her lip in annoyance. No doubt when he had asked the Professor her father had had a different story to relate.

  "Well, think about it, anyway. Although, as staff, you

  will be under my authority"—he waved his arm warningly towards the turbulent water—"a good master prefers to consider his men."

  "I am a woman."

  "I know now. I did not once—" His glance flickered, reminding her of the episode when he had taken up the riding switch. She flushed.

  "And now, if you'll part with it, I'll take my coat, Miss Prosset." He lifted it from her shoulders and the wind cut sharply on her arms. She shivered.

  "Not cold, surely? It is only cool enough for you to run up the track."

  She turned and ran, hearing his low laughter pursuing her, feeling his eyes upon her as she went.

  She was warm with embarrassment as well as exercise when she reached the top.

  CHAPTER VI

  GERRY had been into Marlborough to make a few purchases. They were now staging a successful battle against the severe mahogany of the Meadow House.

  There were gambolling lambs in colours no self-respecting lamb would be seen in, butter-yellow deer and a whole family of cheerful pink dogs.

  She had fun in arranging them, fun in anticipating what pleasure they would bring to the future buns and lemonade boys. These boys were invariably a little homesick—if not exactly homesick eager for something different from their schoolroom and dormitory, and what could be more foreign to chalk and ink or antiseptic-smelling lino than a frivolous pink china dog?

  She had had a word with Saxby about the garden. He had agreed with her that there was more promise in the ground that surrounded the Meadow House. The Cliff House and the master house, Galdang, were more exposed. Statice, stiff and impervious, rather hard-faced chrysanthemums, wind-blown oleanders had had to suffice.

  But the scope of the Meadow House soil was unlimited. The plots were protected, the sun was abundant, the shade was gentle, everything grew—and more would grow, assured Saxby, pleased that he had an enthusiast at last. The previous Meadow House family had not known a weed from a flower.

  He promised tender young primroses, their gay polyanthus cousins, narcissi, daffodils, calliopsis to make a carpet of gold.

  Meanwhile, gratified, he robbed the other gardens for extra flowers for the Prossets, and the rooms bright with blooms and a little giddy with the Marlborough purchases slowly became home. Not the home Gerry had wanted, for Galdang had not surrendered her that, but sufficiently comfortable to sit back and dream in, to read, relax, to turn over, as she was turning now, a seed catalogue and plan bright harvests ahead.

  "I adore flower talk," she said to the Professor, "it is so abundant. 'Nobles' and `charmings' and 'handsomes' lavished on. Listen to this, Dad. It's a common everyday freesia. 'Sweet harbinger of spring, elegantly-perfumed, gentle, responsive, a crown to any plot.' "

  The Professor laughed, pleased with her absorption. None the less he had to tease, "So the mahogany battle is no longer on."

  "It never started."

  "So I gathered." The Professor waved his arm in the direction of the china dogs.

  He was thinking with amusement how childishly transparent she was. Because Manning had brought up the mahogany question she had decided to keep the place as it was.

  For himself he was pleased. Those little figurines reminded him of his first days here with Helen. They had not had much time together. Eleven years is not long.

  Through the window he could see a late stray patch of bluebells lying like a pool of blue water in the green gully moss.

  Helen used to gather the bluebells. She loved them, just as she loved this house. Suddenly he was so glad to be here that he wanted to turn and tell his daughter.

  Instead, looking over his glasses, he said, "Well, darling, how it it going along?"

  He meant her kindergarten revision. She had been hard at it. She had started it that evening when she had come running up from the beach to the house. He had met her at the door, knowing what Manning must have told her.

  "Oh, Dad," she had reproached.

  "Our future time-tables, Gerry?"

  "Yes. You might have warned me."

  "How do you feel about it, Geraldine?"

  She had looked at him "How do you?" she had asked. "Fine. I think it time you did something about that teaching certificate."

  "I did not mean about me, Dad, but about yourself—about being curtailed by th
e Board like that."

  He had not hesitated in his answer. He had rehearsed this too long.

  "It came as a blessing, Geraldine."

  "You mean—you're tired? Not capable of a full schedule any longer?" Her loving eyes had been anxious.

  "I mean I'm looking forward to some hours of reading. I'll let you into something, darling. I'm even planning some reading matter of my own. Mathematics, I've always asserted, are not the dull facts people think they are."

  "A book! Oh, Dad, how splendid!"

  She knew he was capable of it. He was an authority on the subject he had chosen to impart. In her enthusiasm she completely forgot that before all else, although a mathematician, he was a dreamer. Dreamers do not write books. Books entail a practical mind, tedious application. The Professor would inspire a book but never write one. She should have thought of this, but she did not.

  She was proud of him, glad to be of help with her own teaching activities—and he was glad he had thought of such an easy way out.

  When the boys returned and classes got under way he would only teach, he told her, from nine to eleven.

  "The rest of the time you must get on with your book," Gerry agreed, quite excited. "Have you thought of a title yet?"

  Her own teaching would not start till next term when the new schoolroom had been built and fitted. Already the foundations were down. They were set on a little rise halfway between Galdang and the Meadow House. Manning had conferred with her as to size and design. It had been

  agreed that a large sun patio should be erected on the morning side of the new room. "We'll go into colour schemes later on. What are your preferences for the children? Something soothing or something violent?"

  "Certainly not violent," she reproved with a shudder.

  "These are boys, remember, not gentle little girls."

  "All little girls are not gentle."

  "No," he agreed succinctly, "they are not."

  The choice of paint deferred, Gerry had inquired from Manning what he required her to do until the new unit was ready for its pupils.

  "As you always do."