Will You Surrender?

by Joyce Dingwell

  They did so, giving allotted times for individual and class occupations. One period during the day, Gerry read, dealt with number work, another the following day with letters, a third with writing. She looked across at him in inquiry.

  He nodded calmly and quite unrepentantly. "Five, I believe, is not too early to be taught."

  "But " Her voice was bewildered. '

  "But you should have asked permission from me first, not gone to Farwell."

  "I assure you it was not Mr. Farwell's fault."

  "I am convinced of that, but I still have had a word with him."

  "That was not necessary, surely. Not when you say you are satisfied that I was the instigator."

  "I am satisfied, but I am satisfied, too, that Farwell should have known better."

  Gerry threw down her pencil, more angry that Dennis Farwell had been implicated than angry with the new situation. She told herself she must seek out Dennis and tell him she was sorry.

  Manning was watching her closely. It was a cool, contemplative look. She seethed under it. ,

  "I cannot understand you," she flung. "I never shall. Here you are including lessons on my future programme, and yet you made a mountain out of a molehill because I already had."

  His brows had drawn together. She could see he was irritated.

  "Miss Prosset, rebellion, however petty, is never a molehill. I am the master of Galdang; I shall be referred to; I shall be obeyed. Even by you. Now do you understand?"

  She would have loved to resist him, but there was something about this man that tamed even Geraldine.

  Aloud, she said docilely, "Is that all, Mr. Headmaster?"

  He must have decided to accept the docile note in her voice as agreement to his orders, for he did not press her for an answer. Instead, he resumed, "No, not all. There is the matter of Elliott Bethel. I am not at all satisfied with Bethel. Can you help?"

  She knew she could have done that. She knew that one word concerning Elliott's domestic unease would have alerted this man sitting before her, aroused his sympathy, but perversely she chose to leave the word unsaid.

  "He is not co-operative, he is slipshod, listless. I believe I can abide anything before a listless lad."

  Still she sat on.

  "Bethel sees a lot of you, Miss Prosset."

  "No."

  As his brows rose she added, "I told you before, he comes to see Father."

  "I recall. The visits were to the Professor, not the Professor's daughter. They still follow the same pattern?"

  "Certainly." She knew her cheeks were burning. She knew he did not believe her, as anyone with eyes would not believe her. Elliott was always crossing to the Meadow House, always joining her—even more now that Tom was gone.

  Tom's departure had come as a blow to Elliott. Why did he have to go? he asked again and again. Where will they take him? When will he come back?

  Although Gerry had tried to answer placatingly, not to raise Elliott's ire, the two of them, Gerry and the senior boy, were too near each other's natures for Bethel not to sense her innate anger and resentment. Instantly, he had mirrored it back.

  How much of this did Manning guess, as, relaxing now, he took out his cigarette case?

  He offered her one, but she refused it.

  "That's quite right," he nodded, snapping the case shut. "Never become friendly over a cigarette."

  "It's unlikely I shall. I don't smoke."

  "I see. I rather believed the refusal was because I offered it."

  "You find cause to believe that?"

  "Ample, Miss Prosset. Everything I do, everything I say, annoys you. That is apparent."

  "I'm sorry it is apparent. I'm sorry, too, I cannot sup-

  press it. However, my inner feelings are something beyond your control, aren't they? It is my outer docility and obedience that you demand."

  He did not speak at once. Had she glanced up she would have surprised a new look of uncertainty about him. Perhaps there was even a touch of wistfulness.... But Gerry's eyes were down.

  "So much for Bethel," he said presently. "It remains to be seen whether I can permit him to finish his year here."

  Geraldine turned round at that. "What do you mean?" she gasped.

  Before he could answer she burst out dramatically, "You don't expel a boy for being those things—listless, slipshod, uninterested. You don't expel a boy for that."

  His lips were thin now, thin and sarcastic.

  "Don't be so theatrical, Miss Prosset. I told you before that the Thespian art was not your forte. Who spoke of `expulsion'? Bethel would merely be told quietly to leave and not come back."

  "It's the same."

  "It's quite different."

  "It would be a dreadful thing."

  "It would be a fair thing. Galdang has a tremendous waiting list. At present we have over three hundred applications. And boys of all ages, mark you, boys as old and as advanced as Bethel. Boys who might be keen and appreciative. Boys who have material in them, not just so much

  stuff."

  He paused, then resumed, "It's only the parents I feel sorry for in instances like Bethel's. If a boy has not the sense to take hold of his opportunity with two eager hands, he deserves to lose it. However, that judgment does not extend to his mother and father."

  It was now, while he was speaking of Elliott's parents, that she should have spoken. For Elliott's sake she should have spoken. She knew it, but sat silent, instead.

  Perhaps he sensed her knowledge, for he waited. He waited a long time in vain.

  Presently, he sat upright again. "I thought you might have been able to help me. I believed that during those visits to your father"—he paused significantly—"the boy might have dropped some hint."

  Geraldine did not hear the innuendo. She was looking straight at Manning and her eyes were appealing.

  "Elliott has only a term and a half to go before his final examination. You would not send him before that?"

  "Why not? I have a letter here from a parent very anxious to enrol his boy, and it would be only for on term. The pupil also would be of near-graduate stage."

  Gerry said anxiously, "Changing teachers at that juncture would only invite failure."

  "This parent says no. He says that it might help his lad to success."

  Angrily, Geraldine flung, "I am not referring to that proposed scholar."

  As angrily Manning flung back, "He is not merely 'proposed', Miss Prosset, have no fear of that."

  She ignored him. "I was referring to Elliott. If you do what you just said you would do, it might ruin Elliott's chances."

  "Miss Prosset, the way Elliott is going he has no chances. He will pass no final, neither here nor in his home at Villamarine. Please try to comprehend that."

  She was not listening At Manning's mention of Villamarine she was remembering Bethel and his expressionless face as he had told her, "My mother was not home, only my dad."

  Manning was watching Geraldine closely. He took the tightening of her lips as she bit back a sorrow for a boy caught up in misunderstanding and bewilderment as the old obstinacy again.

  He waited a moment. He waited for her at last to ask about Thomas. That was really why he had summoned her across. He could not capitulate, not when the situation was of her making, but he must afford her the chance. Perhaps here, where they had discussed Thomas, had felt the first sting of tears at the death of Tom's mother, would release the words.

  He had had news of Tom. His father was still not located. The home reported that he had settled in nicely. He was a well-behaved little lad. There were three lines in block print obviously taken from a teacher's copy—so Tom, anyway, was up to lessons—and the letter ended, as a note to Mrs. Betts accompanying box of chocolates had once ended—"FROM TOM".

  The silence lengthened. She did not ask. He did not take out the letter.

  When she said stiffly, "Is that all?" he said just as stiffly, "Yes."

  She went out by the door with the battered sa
int again, aware not only of the wall between them this time but of its impregnability.

  It was a high, high wall.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE next day Gerry hurried over during the play period to tender her apologies to the junior assistant.

  This was the status she had allotted Mr. Manning on that day of their first encounter. She had believed he had come to the wrong house, that he was taking upon himself more authority than he was entitled to. She remembered she had even promised him quick dismissal once her father had received his promotion. At the memory of the episode her cheeks burned.

  Dennis Farwell was of average height, average looks and more than average charming nature.

  If, thought Gerry, her first impression had been true and Damien Manning had held this lesser position, would they have found the same instant warm friendship as had she and Den?

  If, on the other hand, Dennis was H.M.—the thought made her smile—would she have been Farwell's enemy?

  The answer to both questions came spontaneously, and from the heart.

  She could never find it in her to dislike Dennis Farwell —as she could never find it in her to accept, whether headmaster or humble assistant, the man who was Damien Manning.

  Dennis greeted her cordially. He was playing basketball with a group of the juniors, but he called Phillips to his side and put him in his place. Together he and Gerry walked to a sideline.

  She burst out at once in typical Geraldine manner.

  "Den, it was all my fault and I'm terribly sorry. You should have refused me right in the beginning, not been too nice to allot me even one discouraging word."

  "Hi, what is all this?" Dennis looked genuinely astonished.

  Gerry said in one breath, "Mr. Headmaster Manning and the liberties taken by the junior assistant and the new kindergarten teacher when they conferred together and went over his head."

  Den's grin was wide now. It went from ear to ear. "Hold your horses, Prossy, he wasn't all that grim."

  "He was to me."

  "Honest?"

  Gerry nodded, then related what Damien had said.

  "After all that," she concluded ruefully, "he put reading, writing and numbers down on my programme, so why did he make all that fuss?"

  The junior assistant looked contemplative. Presently he admitted seriously, "We did pass him by, Gerry, and there's no squirming out of it. If ever I'm on top, which is unlikely, I'll make every assistant teacher bow down to me, refer to their boss in every detail. Frankly, I won't be nearly as easy as our H.M."

  "Easy?" echoed Geraldine hollowly.

  "Easy," nodded Farwell with feeling. He began telling her of his past experiences in his short career of teaching, but she only half listened. It was clear that whatever Manning had said to Dennis had been understated and only mildly critical, not like what had been said to her.

  The conversation left the subject of lessons for pre-juniors and came to the contemplated spending of the spring holidays that were now only a few weeks off.

  "Third term over! I can hardly believe it," sighed Gerry.

  "Poor old Dawson can believe it. Only two months to his boys' all-important finals. Thank heaven I've only the words-of-one-syllable kids."

  Gerry giggled. "You're going away, of course?" she asked presently.

  Dennis paused. "No, I don't think so--" He looked at her a little uncertainly as though he would have liked to say something. She waited, but he did not go on.

  "Well, there's always a lot to do here," she said cheer-

  fully. "If the weather keeps warming up we'll even be able to swim."

  "Yes," nodded Farwell, then, after hesitating once more, "and there are to be guests again at Galdang." He intercepted a too-wild toss from Kester and returned the ball smartly.

  "The aunt and—Miss Trenning," he told Gerry a little shyly, "are coming back."

  There was a small silence.

  Even someone far less perceptive than Gerry would have read beneath Dennis's words; even her own present self-absorption did not impede Gerry's instant comprehension as to what Farwell really meant. She stared at him in surprise—and a little pity. Oh, Dennis, she wanted to cry out, to warn him, don't let yourself feel deeply towards Cynthia Trenning. It would all be so futile, so hopeless. Can't you see that?

  Whether Dennis knew it or not, there was now an obstinate thrust to his jaw that made him, in a way, look almost as determined as Manning.

  It must be very flattering for Cynthia to be wanted by so many men, exaggerated Gerry, and she left the junior assistant to cross to the beckoning P.T. Instructor—who had always wanted her, she recalled in mild comfort, though admittedly in a rather casual mixed-up fashion, the mix-up including football in season, tennis all seasons, swimming from spring to autumn.

  Neville's topic was sport now.

  "Gerry, I'll want your help with young Bethel." "Why me, Nev?"

  "Why not? He's in love with you, isn't he?"

  "Neville!" She tried to be outraged, but found she couldn't. How different this man's open statements from Manning's innuendoes.

  "Well, isn't he?" repeated Neville impatiently. "Don't quibble, Geraldine. The fact is, the Head's kicking. I've got to get Elliott down to some active sport."

  "But why? Not all the boys can be athletic-minded. There are quite a few in Mr. Dawson's grade who never even voluntarily take fresh air."

  "You mean Willdred, Sanders and Co. But they're the brains trust. It appears that Bethel is as slack on lessons as he is in my avenue."

  Geraldine frowned. "And it appears to me that since Mr. Manning took over no one can be anything but overflowing with enthusiasm over something. Must everyone be a perfectionist? Can't there be a lesser light at all?"

  Neville grinned.

  "Sorry, Geraldine, I've got my orders."

  "And you agree with them?"

  "Can't say that I don't. Bethel's slipping badly." "You wouldn't say it was—the school slipping?" Neville stared at her, and she hurried to explain. "Mr. Manning spoke to me, too, Nev. I came to the conclusion that if a boy is only average, or perhaps mediocre,

  he is no longer wanted at Galdang, and someone else must

  take his place."

  Neville grinned. "Knowing you, Gerry, I'd say, as ever, you were exaggerating."

  "A little, perhaps, Neville, though not that much." She paused.

  "Go on," he encouraged.

  "Because Elliott Bethel is not a Willdred at lessons, not a Bennings on the football field, he is to be victimized. It is either that reason, or—"

  "Or?"

  This time she did not go on. She had been going to say, "It is either that, or because I have protected him, hence I, through Elliott, must be punished," but she feared that Neville might not understand.

  "All right," she conceded unwillingly, "I'll speak to Elliott. Any particular sport?"

  "Anything he'll agree to condescend to take an interest in. Sorry we can't supply him outboards the same as his home bay in Villamarine Island, but tennis, at least, should appeal."

  "I'll do what I can," nodded Gerry, and went off a little uncertainly. She wondered what she would say when she found Elliott.

  As she crossed to the senior division she thought about the forthcoming vacation as regarded Bethel. How was he feeling about it? His last trip home had not been a success.

  She recalled her own autumn break . . . she recalled Thomas at her side on every excursion, his silent yearning

  to see his Mum . . . she recalled the journey down to

  Sydney, the reunion . . . she recalled what came after. . . .

  Elliott must have been thinking on the same subject. At her invitation he fell in step beside her and they walked along the cliff track. He had grown taller this term—he must be almost as tall as Manning, but he was still thin and too pale.

  "Last break," he said opening the conversation, "young Tom was here at Galdang. I wanted to take him to Villa with me. Remember, Miss Gerry?"

&nb
sp; "I remember, Elliott."

  A pause, and then the now familiar bitter inquiry mirroring back her own innate resentment.

  "What's happened to Tom, Miss Prosset? When is he coming back?"

  "I don't know, Elliott."

  "Hasn't he told you?"

  She knew she should have reproved him for that, but she didn't. She merely answered, "No, Elliott, he hasn't," and they walked on.

  After a few moments Bethel said boldly, "Then I'll ask him."

  Gerry glanced sideways at the boy. "That would not be your privilege," she reminded gently, "and besides—" "Yes?"

  "It would be unwise. You see, Elliott, Mr. Manning at present is not at all pleased with you. You have lost interest, you must admit."

  Elliott did not deny it. He said simply, "Yes."

  "In which case the H.M. is even speaking of asking you to leave, Elliott." Gerry said it deliberately without adornment. Perhaps, she thought, an awakening will do Elliott some good.

  The boy was unaffected, so amazingly unaffected that it worried Geraldine.

  She stopped on the path and turned squarely on him.

  "Elliott, doesn't that mean anything at all?"

  He flushed, the flush seeming all the brighter because of late he had become so pallid.

  "Yes, yes, it does," he said faintly, and then, in a rush, "it does--if you are still here." There was a clumsy silence after the words.

  She could find nothing with which to answer him and he hurried on rather wildly.

  "But—but that's the only reason—Geraldine--that's the only reason at all."

  When she still could not speak, he went on in the same unhappy agitation.

  "Don't smile at me, don't laugh at the idea, because it's real, I tell you—it's--it's here." He touched his shirt quickly, and something in the awkward gesture tore at Gerry. It was not outrageous, she found, it was not even funny—it was a little sad.