He paused. All the morning he had been planning to ask
her to drive down with him. He had thought of that other time they had gone down for Tom—the road rimming bush, fields and ocean—the house with the rowan tree. Now it all seemed so different.
He finished, "So you won't have a class on Wednesday, Miss Prosset."
"No, Mr. Manning. Will it be for long?"
"You must consult Matron about that. Presumably she knows the isolation period."
"Presumably."
There was a silence. It seemed to grow and grow until it was unbearable.
"You'll go down tomorrow," said Gerry unnecessarily. "Yes. I'll probably stay a few days. There are things to be done—things I have to attend to—"
"I suppose so." Did any of those things, she wondered, concern Thomas? In the inconsequential way people do think at such times she told herself foolishly. Just as well Tom is not here, or he, too, would be down with measles.
Aloud, she asked, "What am I to do, Mr. Manning, while my boys are not here?"
"As you did before—class preparation. You can meet the intake at Marlborough if you like, give Matron a hand."
She nodded, longing to escape yet longing not to leave him.
If he had looked up from the desk he might have seen the uncertainty in her face and moved towards her to find why it was there.
But he kept on checking names, still prevented by that suffocation from glancing anywhere but at the papers before him.
When she said, "Is that all, Mr. Manning?" he said, "Yes, thank you, Miss Prosset."
When he did look up at last she was gone.
CHAPTER XX
IT'S an ill wind, quoted Gerry thankfully to herself, sorry for the little pre-preps with their measles but glad for Geraldine, since it afforded the Professor something else to talk about other than his pleasure in his daughter's news.
Gerry encouraged him almost feverishly, sitting through the mumps epidemic in , the chickenpox in ' and the time young Sinclair had contacted meningitis and they had had to fly up a specialist from Sydney and isolate the entire school.
"Did he recover?" she asked falsely.
She recalled it well. Sinclair had recovered. He had been one of the boys to propose to her after he left.
The Professor was full of "I remember", however, so did not think to remind her that she had been there when it all happened.
"Ian did a term in the navy," he related. "Wrote to me one trying period accusing me of urging him into the most demanding branch of the services through my soliloquizing on cargoes in the middle of mathematics." He chuckled to himself.
"The meningitis turned to sea fever?" asked Gerry. "Yes, and from that he did not recover. He is with Mercantile now, doing very well."
Gerry knew. She knew all the stories that followed. But tonight the Professor was in an expansive mood. He took out all his memories as one would take books from a shelf. Pink crept into his cheeks. His eyes shone as he turned over the pages of the years. When she made supper, he said, "That was a grand night, Gerry. Thank you, my dear."
"Thank you, darling, I enjoyed every minute of it." She had, she thought. It had been a relief to escape, if only temporarily, from that other pain.
The Professor beamed. "And I enjoyed it as well."
The next day Gerry went in with Dennis Farwell to
meet the city train. Dennis was inclined to moody silence. He was obviously disconsolate. Gerry longed to comfort him, but her own unhappiness absorbed her. It was all she could do to smile a welcome when the northern mail came to a halt.
Out they poured as they always did. One moment it was an empty country station and the next a teeming platform full of red and green banded caps.
Dark heads, fair heads, redheads, sandy. Tall boys, small boys, the Billy Bunters and the thin monkeys—including Mark Berry again, of course. Mark concealed himself behind a bag on a porter's barrow and was having a fine ride when Gerry discovered him.
"Aw, gee, Miss Prosset," he said.
Neville pushed through the throng, only recognizable because he was the sole arrival without headgear.
"Hullo, Geraldine, my love. Miss me? Hullo, Farwell. Was it worth while forgoing our canoe trip and waiting back at Galdang instead?"
"No," gloomed Dennis, "it was not."
"Hullo, Neville," greeted Gerry.
The sports master regarded her thoughtfully. "You don't look so bright either, Prossy. Moral: Never stop at a school when there are no boys."
"Sometimes," said Dennis sourly, just preventing in time Mark Berry's removal of Warren Phillips's hat from Warren's head to the railway line, "it's the only period it seems bearable."
"That's a fine spirit, I must say, for the beginning of a term."
"Last term, remember," brightened Dennis.
He joined Neville to organize the buses, and Gerry turned to find Elliott standing by her side.
One look at Elliott's face made her heart sink even further. As though I have not enough already, she thought, and now this.
"How was it, Elliott?" It seemed futile to ask him. The look told her everything.
"No good. No good at all."
"You saw your mother?"
"Yes."
"Is there any hope that . . . ?"
"No, I don't believe there is."
They stood on the pulsing platform, but they might have been on a lonely hilltop, so isolated were they in their unhappiness.
"The trouble is," burst out Elliott, "I can see her side as well. When they were—when Dad and Mother were married, it was all so different."
"They did not live in the islands then?"
"Oh, yes, but it was in a big luxury hotel. Dad was manager, and there was plenty of life, and Mother loved it. Then Dad gave up the managing and moved to Villamarine and started on copra. It's a fascinating trade, Miss Gerry—no wonder he preferred it to the hotel business. Those broken-up pieces of coconut dried in the sun, then turned into soap, shampoos, cooking oil. Oh, it's quite absorbing. I'd like it as well. Dad not only preferred it, he thrived at it. He's done pretty well."
"But your mother hasn't liked it?"
"At first she did. I think she liked it until I had to come over here for my education. She stopped liking it after that." Elliott paused and chewed at his bottom lip.
"She was lonely," suggested Geraldine.
"I expect so. It's hard for men to realize that women can be so lonely. I would never be lonely. Neither would Dad. It's such an enthralling life, life in the tropics. There's cruising between the islands in the trader boat; there's fun on the harbour in the outboard. Oh, lots of things. Dad even got a glass-bottomed tub so we could examine the coral polyp."
"And didn't your mother like that?"
"When I was there she did. When I wasn't there it seemed Dad didn't bother to take her. There was his business to attend to, the island trading as well. The trouble was, I grew up, and Dad made money—enough money for Mother to have a house in Sydney as well as the Villamarine bungalow. Now she doesn't want to go back."
Elliott paused, his eyes distant. Gerry sensed he was seeing a seaward reef with white foam breaking over it, a peaceful lagoon and a wide, white beach house.
"I think she must like it in her heart," he said, puzzled. "I think she couldn't help but like it, it's so lovely, so—so different from all this. I guess she's just lonely there, as you said."
"But you will be back next year, Elliot. This is your last term at Galdang."
"Dad wants me to take business routine first; if possible go through a tropical science research course at the Technical University. It would be an asset and I would like it, but—"
"But what, Elliott?"
Elliott's face clouded. "It's not me who matters, it's those two, Mother and Dad. Miss Prosset—Miss Gerry—I can't bear it as it is."
His face had crumpled in the way she had dreaded. She put herself between him and the boys while he fought with his emotion.
Presently he said almost gruffly, "I'm all right now." "And Mr. Farwell is filling the buses, Elliott. You'd better go."
Gerry found herself placed once more with the juniors. "Where are the Bubs?" they asked.
"What's happened to the little nips?"
"Measles, so they have an extra month," informed Gerry. "Wow!" said Kesler.
"Lucky beggars," envied Phillips.
James Semple said, "There are two species of measle germs, Miss Prosset. I wonder which variety this is."
When they reached Galdang, Neville sought out Geraldine.
"I travelled out near Bethel, Prossy. There's going to be more trouble there. If he was uncooperative before, now he is even worse. As far as he is concerned, Galdang does not exist."
"You mean lessons or sport?"
"Both, but my avenue is only the latter. I've had instructions from the H.M. to get the lifesaving under way again now that the season's beginning, but how can I with a member like that?"
"He won't be the only member. You'll have plenty of other material."
"He's the member I'm ordered to include, Gerry, and they're strict orders. I want your help again. Try and infuse something into him."
"All right," said Gerry, a little drearily. It was not much use trying, she thought, but it was easier to put Neville off like this.
"No need for worry yet, though," she told him. "Mr. Manning's down in Sydney."
Neville nodded busily, waved some boys off the tennis court where the lines were being repainted, then went along to inspect the gym.
Geraldine went into the Meadow House to help Matron with the returning boys. In a week, less than that, they would have found rhythm again, but the first days were always a trial.
When she finished she went looking for the Professor, but could not find him. He was not in the study, not in the garden, not down the gully, and his fishing gear was still here, so he was not on the beach.
"Have you seen Dad, Matron?"
"No, dear, come to think of it I've not seen the Professor all morning."
She asked Hilda and the answer was the same.
"Oh, well, he's probably down at the Inlet library—or over with Mr. Dawson exchanging trick maths problems." She laughed and went out to watch the boys.
But the Professor was not at the library, not with Mr. Dawson.
After Gerry had departed to Marlborough to meet the school he had felt a sudden curious elation within him, an almost unreal lightness. It's the relief of knowing about Geraldine and Damien, he thought with content. Now, as I told Gerry last night, I can die happy. He smiled to himself
All at once he felt a longing to walk along the cliff. It was ages since he had done so—not since Helen had died, in fact. During the years he had been in the senior house he had been contented with looking out on the sea from the window or fishing from the beach, but he had never walked along the cliff. Had this been because the two of them used to walk it together, he and Helen, and it had become a sweet remembered thing?
But now he wanted to go there. Not with Geraldine, bless her, but with his memories of Gerry's mother. Avoiding Matron, not telling Hilda, he took up his stick.
It was glorious weather. The waves reflected the pale colour of the sky. There was a white crest on every ripple. No wonder he felt elated on a day like this.
. . . Then suddenly—and happily—the Professor knew
the real reason for his elation. "Helen," he called gladly, putting out his hand. "Helen, my dear, my dear. . . ."
He crumpled up on the path just out of sight of the school buildings, then slipped a distance down the cliff-side. It was only a very small mark on his forehead that the rock inflicted, and by the time of the impact there could be no pain because the spirit had already fled. The Professor was dead.
The afternoon waned. The first star pricked the sky. Presently the cliff was beyond the last ray of the sun. Geraldine, finding darkness around her, began to look for her father.
He was not with Mr. Dawson. He had not been to the library. He was not at the vicar's. . . . There was nowhere else to look.
"There's a boat out," suggested Neville. "Possibly the Prof went with one of the fishermen. He's done that several times before."
"Very seldom, Neville, and all his gear is here."
"He might have gone without it. There'd be plenty in the boat."
"Ye-s," said Geraldine doubtfully, but on Matron's advice she did not join Neville and Dennis in their search but waited in the Meadow House for the Professor's return instead.
He did not come—only Mr. Dawson. Neville and Dennis, he said quietly and significantly, were fetching rope and a sling.
"Is it—Dad?"
"Yes, Geraldine."
"Is he—is he—"
"No, he's not, my dear. You must be brave while I tell you. It was all over by the time they reached him. He was gone, Geraldine."
Gerry sat dry-eyed in the circle of Matron's comforting arms. Nearby Hilda choked on a sob and sniffed.
". . . Taking frozen meat, wheat, wool and apples," she thought dully. "Bringing onyx and turtle fins, cinnamon and joss sticks."
She saw in her inward mind a boat slip over the horizon, but this time there was no cheerful, "Well, back to work, boys."
The Professor had gone with his ship.
CHAPTER XXI
THE thing that hurt Gerry most was her ignorance.
Mr. Manning had known, Neville, Mr. Dawson, the vicar, Mr. Felix at the store, Matron, Hilda, Cook.
Only the Professor's daughter had not suspected. Why had they guarded her like that? Wrapped her in cotton-wool?
A wave of futility, of utter uselessness swept over Geraldine. What poor sort of woman was she that her father had kept the biggest secret in his life away from her like this?
"Don't torment yourself," urged Mr. Dawson. "It was the way he wanted things."
"My child, fretting will get you nowhere." This was the vicar. "Without his telling you, how could you know? I've never seen a man who looked so well right up to his death."
"It was a fine night you gave him on his last night of all," cheered Hilda. "I heard the two of you dusting old memories. Talk about laugh—"
"Snap out of it," said Neville. "The Professor set the programme, Gerry. You can't go against his wish."
Still she sat withdrawn and desperately unhappy, blaming herself a thousand times as she went over the past year.
She should have guessed that the Board would not have passed the Professor by without a vital reason. She should have suspected when Mr. Dawson had taken his place and he had been returned to the junior position that something was amiss. She should have wondered that a born teacher like her father would decide to curtail lessons while still not into his retirement.-She should have seen through that camouflage of a book.
There wasn't a book, of course. There never had been. The Professor could teach mathematics so that it had all the romance of history, but it was his method, not his
words, his expression and gesticulations, something not to be caught in print. Mathematics in black and white were only figures and symbols. The Professor took figures and symbols and gave them an enchanted twist.
Oh, you fool, Gerry, you poor blind idiot. The evidence was there before you, but you would not look.
There was something else tearing at Geraldine—it was the way he had died. By himself, on the cliff.
Damien Manning had returned from Sydney the moment he had learned of the news. He had come straight to the Meadow House.
"There are a lot of things I want to say to you, but first there is this: you know, of course, that the police will be calling."
"The police " Her lips trembled. Her fingers clung
to the arms of the chair.
He wanted to untangle the fingers, to fold her to him in comfort, but he dared not, she looked such a frozen, unapproachable little thing.
"It's routine," he said gently. "They would avoid it if they could, but they have to hav
e particulars. Don't worry about it. I'll be here."
The police came and went, asking questions in apologetic undertones, assuring her that this was not their choice.
She heard them out bravely, answered serenely, but when they went her control went as well.
"I knew it must come some day, everyone knows that, but did he have to be all alone till night-time on a cliff?" "Not alone," said Damien.
Gerry looked at him
"Your mother," he reminded quietly, and Gerry said, "Yes."
"Besides, Geraldine, why not there?" Manning waved his arm to the window and what lay beyond it.
It was a windless day. Gerry knew the cliff would be soaked with peace. She could hear the low murmur of waves dragging over sand and shingle. It was like the song you heard when you put a listening shell to your ear, she thought, the quiet pleasure it gave, the gentle peace.
She knew she should apologize to Manning for all the things she had thought of him—even had called him. He was no usurper after all. It had been the Professor's wish.
Damien did not wait for an apology, though. There
were arrangements to be made. She must be spared as
much as possible. "I'll let you know everything," he said
gently, and she nodded and shook away a tear.
The manner of Professor Prosset's death made little stir in Breffny. It might have been a pebble ruffling the stillness of a pond. There were a few ripples, then everything was the same again.
Breffny people were fishing people. They accepted the simple things of life and death as they accepted tide and element. They had all known that the old scholar was failing—Mr. Felix had seen to that—and the fact that his body had been discovered on the rocks below Galdang did not disquiet them. The end came when God intended it to come, whether you were in bed or walking on a cliff. No doubt Professor Prosset would have been quite contented over it—even happy. He had looked happy, so Hilda had reported.
Most of them attended the simple ceremony at Marlborough, looking sympathetically at the girl they knew and loved.
Will You Surrender? Page 16