CHAPTER VI
AUSTIN, by some mysterious process more direct than vision, had recognized that the feminine figure was Elise, although the tip of her silver slipper was all he could see as the door first opened, but he was not in the least prepared to discover that her companion was his erring accountant. He fixed him with a blank and astonished eye which, to a guilty conscience, looked like severity. Elise flew forward.
"Oh, Mr. Bevans," she said, "how wonderful that you should be here! Will you come up-stairs and dance with me?" And for the first time Austin became aware that somewhere in the house an orchestra was playing dance music.
"I don't dance," he answered. It was an uncompromising lie.
Elise was disappointed. She was dressed in shining white, with a green wreath in her hair and a green feather fan in her hand, but her added beauty did not soften Austin's heart—on the contrary, it made him feel all the more acutely the utter degradation of her conduct.
"I came to see Mr. Johns," he said.
"Oh, Greorge, run up-stairs and tell grandfather that Mr. Bevans is here," said Elise, with far less consideration than Austin had shown to the footman.
"No," said Austin. "I came to see Mr. Johns about this young man, and it may be that he would like to offer me some explanation of his conduct first."
George, who did not like being referred to as "this young man," said, proudly, "I don't feel any obligation to explain my conduct to you, sir."
"I was offering you an opportunity—not an obligation," said Austin.
"I am not ashamed of anything that I have done," said George.
"Indeed!" replied Austin. "Then let me tell you your face belies you. Step to that mirror and see if a human countenance ever wore a more guilty expression."
Such was the disarray of George's mentality that he almost found himself obeying the command and moving toward the mirror over the mantelpiece. Pulling himself hastily together, however, he answered:
"My conduct requires no explanation whatsoever. Mr. Johns's head bookkeeper selected me for this position. Mr. Johns can hardly object to my taking it. Have you any complaint of the way in which I filled the position?"
"I certainly have," said Austin.
"Am I not a competent bookkeeper?"
"As competent as any man under a strong emotional excitement could be, I suppose."
"I don't understand you."
"That has been quite clear from the beginning," said Austin. "The fact is, Mr. Boyd, you have made the common mistake of explaining the wrong crime. I have no objection to your having taken the position of bookkeeper in the school."
"What do you object to?" asked George, relieved for an instant of apprehension.
"To your writing love-letters to your pupils; to your using their exercises as a means of communication; to these," he drew the letters from his pocket, "found in Miss Benedotti's desk."
"Oh, Elise!" said George, reproachfully.
The little princess, whose mind worked quicker than George's, had seen this coming for some time, and she now took action. She made a little gesture to indicate running up-stairs. "Go away—please, George," she said.
The suggestion was not altogether disagreeable to George; two primitive instincts contended within himself-preservation and jealousy; one bade him go and the other bade him stay, and in the end, like the great Gibbon, he sighed as a lover but obeyed as an accoimtant. He heard Austin begin, "Really, Elise, I have nothing to say to you in regard to this—" and then the door closed behind him. Elise closed it and, leaning her back against it, she looked at Austin.
"I have nothing whatever to say to you," Austin continued, while all the phrases he had been inventing especially for her benefit went whirling through his brain. "If you are really attached to this"—(the words "red-faced lout" rose to his lips, but he suppressed them)—"this young man with the consent of your grandfather, it is no concern of mine, but you shall not correspond with him clandestinely. It makes no difference to me what your feelings may be, but while you are in my school your conduct—"
"Mr. Bevans, is that really true?"
"Is what true?"
"That you don't care how I feel?"
He could not say that it was, and did not choose to say that it was not. In the momentary pause he became aware that she was, as usual, trembling—trembling to such a degree that the air of the whole room seemed to be vibrating about her and, what was worse, setting up a sympathetic tremor in his own nerves. He said, angrily:
"Why do you tremble like that? Are you afraid of me?"
She shook her head and then as emphatically nodded it. Then she put up her hand to her mouth in a vain effort to control her lower jaw so that she could enunciate. "Not a bit—yes, I am—not exactly afraid—but I love you—I love you terribly."
It seemed to Austin that all sounds had suddenly died away and that he and she were left alone in an absolutely silent world. The truth was he had ceased to take note of anything but her. She stood quite still, until he began to speak, and then she stopped him.
"No, no, pl-please," she stammered, "don't say any of those things you are thinking of saying—that I'm too young to know what love is—and all that. I have so little time and it's so hard for me to tell you about it. You see, it doesn't matter about George—anything he says or does doesn't matter. He's been proposing to me every week since I was fourteen, and grandfather thinks it would be a good way of getting rid of me; but he's just like a paving-stone I step on every day; I might notice it if it disappeared. What's the use of talking about him, or complaining to grandfather about him? He doesn't matter—nothing matters but you."
If Austin had been a student of the great psychologist whose works he had once recommended to Mr. Johns he would have known that strange passivity which he thought was calm was in reality the conflict within him of two strong and opposing emotions. He stood quiet, aware only of just what it would be like to take her in his arms. She now discovered that by pressing both hands against her chin she could in a measure control it, and she went on:
"It's terrible to feel like this—it eats me up. I used to be rather a silly girl about singers and actors and great people—used to think about them and make myself unhappy, but I wasn't unhappy—I enjoyed it. Oh, Mr. Bevans, I don't enjoy this—it's dreadful—it gives me no rest—I can't eat or sleep and all the time I have that horrid feeling here"—she pressed her hand against her heart—"that you have just before something very exciting happens. I get no peace except when I'm with you, and then it almost kills me. What shall I do? what shall I do?" It was impossible for Austin to tell her what to do, for he was fully occupied telling himself what not to do—not to take her hand, not to pat her shoulder—not to offer her any sign of sympathy for fear it would end in something quite different.
"Now, just wait a moment," he contrived to say, and was horrified to find how strange his own voice sounded.
"Do you hate me to love you?" she asked.
"My dear child," he said, "I'll tell you something—nobody hates to be loved, and certainly no man could hate to be loved by a beautiful little being like you, and I've had a rotten life, and no one ever cared about me, except probably my mother, and I don't remember her."
Elise gave a gasp of joy; for, obviously, if no one had loved him, he had never really loved, for if he did he would be irresistible.
"But," he went on, "of course I'm not going to have you love me—not like this, because it isn't the best thing for you." He knew now what he had to do—he had to tell her about Susie; he wished that at the moment Susie seemed to him less like a vague agreeable perfume and more like a living, breathing woman. He had to tell her about Susie, but first he must let her see that she herself was a matter of profoundest importance to him. He decided, in other words, to give the sweet first and the medicine afterward. He tried to outline for her the cherishing affection he had for her as a pupil—for her in particular. "And I shall go on feeling like that," he said, "when you have forgotten that I was ever anything to you but the head of your school."
"When I'm an old, withered woman like Miss Curtis," she answered, "I shall love you just as I do to-night."
And then, most unfortunately, the door opened and Mr. Johns came in, and the announcement about Susie had not been made.
"Hullo, Bevans!" Mr. Johns began to shout, in his most holiday humor. "George Boyd told me you wanted to see me. What are you doing at a frivolous occasion like this—a staid old schoolmaster like you? Want to spoil the girls' fun by reminding them of lessons, eh?"
Austin smiled vaguely. He was trying to think out what it was he had once wanted to see Mr. Johns about.
"Well, my dear," Johns went on, taking Elise's limp hand, "how's it going? As much fun as you expected? Your hands are cold. By Jove! Bevans, what would you give to be at an age when your hands are like ice, and you tremble—yes, tremble, at the pleasure of a mere dance? My, I couldn't get as excited as that if I were going to wreck a bank." He patted her hand and replaced it at her side, as if of herself she would not have sense enough to know what to do with it. "Ah, Bevans, youth, youth—no cares, no troubles. Run up and dance, my dear; we won't keep you doing the civil—dance and get your circulation started. And now what the deuce was it you wanted to say to me, Bevans?"
Austin hesitated. In view of what had just occurred, it did seem absurd to cite George as a criminal disturber of the little princess's peace of mind. She saw his hesitation, gave him a last smile to assure him that whatever he decided to do would be perfect, and disappeared.
Mr. Johns settled into a chair, bit off a cigar, and prepared for a chat along lines of his own selection.
"Notice that young feller, Boyd?" he said.
"Did I notice him?" echoed Austin.
"Wasn't he here when you came in? Sweet on Elise. They think I'm awfully opposed—sneak off like that, you know, so that I won't see. They think I don't know—think we're all fools, Bevans. Maybe we are. It would surprise them to know I'm for it—that would take all the fun out of it. I believe girls ought to marry young—out of the way—out of mischief. Clean young feller—dull dog, though."
"Does Elise seem to—to fancy him?" asked Austin, and even put like this in the face of fact she knew to the contrary, the idea disgusted him.
"Don't know—treats him like the devil—that's no sign with a woman that she isn't crazy about him, though."
"Oh, Mr. Johns, for Heaven's sake don't get off that stuff about woman's being a mystery," cried Bevans. "Take it from the head of a girls' school that she isn't—she's just so clear and direct that men can't get the hang of it."
Mr. Johns gave a tremendous grunt. "Do you mean to tell me that at your age you think you know more about women than I do?" he shouted.
"Of course I think I do—and I do, too," said Austin. "I've got beyond that old mystery stage, anyhow."
One of the best ways of keeping your temper in an argument, as most of us know only too well, is not to listen to anything the other person has to say. This discussion now went forward very comfortably, each party to it using comparative leisure of the other one's speeches in order to marshal his own ideas.
"Direct and clear!" roared Mr. Johns—"why, I think you must be crazy. Women can't be clear, for they don't know how to think, and they can't be direct, for they don't know what they want, and when they do they change it. Varium et mutabile, that feller knew what he was talking about."
"Yes, and who said that?" cried Austin, for the first time appreciating that his midnight studies of Virgil had not been wasted, "a slick male god trying to get a wandering widower to desert a woman so constant that she immediately burned herself up on the seashore when he actually went."
"Ha!" said Mr. Johns, "and do you call that sensible—to burn yourself up on the beach? Do you quote that as a rational, intelligent action?"
"I call it clear and direct, anyhow," said Austin, and at this instant the door again opened and this time George hurried in.
The instinct of self-preservation had sent George up-stairs; once safe, however, his jealousy had suggested his sending Mr. Johns down to interrupt the tête-à-tête, by the assertion that Austin had come to tell him something. But hardly was this successfully accomplished than George began to consider in great agony of mind what it was that Austin was telling. He believed not only that he would be most unacceptable to Mr. Johns as a suitor, but that his conduct in masquerading as an accountant at the school would lose him his job at the bank, and unless properly explained might damage his whole financial future.
He hurried down, therefore, and as he entered he never doubted that it was his conduct, not Dido's, which the two men were hotly discussing. Assuming a slightly pompous calm, which he was far from feeling, he said, "Mr. Johns, I have a right to be heard." Neither of the others answered him, and he continued, with even greater firmness, "Even a criminal has a right to be, and I am not a criminal."
"Well, that's good news, George," said Mr. Johns, who had not yet the least idea what it was all about.
I wish an opportunity to explain," continued George.
"I thought your conduct did not require explanation," said Austin, delighted to find some one to be disagreeable to.
"You go right ahead, George," said his host, "and explain anything you have a mind to."
"To begin with," said George, "I am a competent bookkeeper."
"Wrong at the start," replied Mr. Johns. "However, you're no worse than the others, so go on with the explanation."
"I had a perfect right, at the suggestion of your own head man, to accept employment outside the bank if I saw fit. I cannot allow any discussion on that point."
"Anybody want to discuss it?" asked Johns.
"And as for the letters," continued George, "the letters which this gentleman found and read"—he emphasized this bitingly—"all I can say about them is to be candid, Mr. Johns, and tell you that I love your granddaughter."
"God bless my soul!" shouted Mr. Johns, beginning a most elaborate series of grunts and scowls.
"I know, I know, sir," said George, standing his ground in spite of the terror that those manifestations always roused in him. "I know it surprises you. I had not intended to tell you until my financial position was better, but it's the truth. I do love her, and some day I hope to marry her."
"Well, you don't expect me to agree to any such proposition as that," said Johns, his eyes twinkling brightly at Austin under his drawn brows. "Ten years hence is time enough to think of her marrying, and then to some one—"
"I did not expect you to approve," answered George. "But you will not forbid my seeing her and writing to her sometimes?"
Johns, who was beginning to get a pretty good idea of the situation, was enjoying himself immensely. "I don't think we can object to an occasional letter—eh, Bevans?" he said. He had expected Austin to be as much amused as himself, and was surprised to hear him answer, quickly:
"I expressly forbid Boyd's writing to Elise—or to any pupil in my school, except his sister."
"You forbid me!" cried George. "You forbid me to write to Elise, and yet you order her to write to you—every day, too."
"Eh, what's that?" asked Mr. Johns. "He orders Elise to write to him?"
"Yes," replied George, feeling he was scoring for the first time. "He has her write to him every day."
"And does she?" asked her grandfather.
"You bet she does," answered Austin, who was no coward. "I've been trying to improve her writing and spelling, which aren't much good, you know, Mr. Johns."
"He's right there, George," said Mr. Johns, but Austin could feel that those bright little eyes dwelt contemplatively upon him for an instant.
"Mr. Johns," said George, "you ought to see those letters. What is in them? We—you, I mean, have a right to know."
Austin smiled quite in the grand manner. "You can see them easily enough, if Elise keeps them. I always correct them and give them back to her." And then he remembered that he had one uncorrected in his pocket at that very moment which he would not let them see on any account.
"Well," said Mr. Johns, "suppose we effect a compromise. I have no objection to Mr. Bevans improving her handwriting, and I have no objection to your writing to her now and then, George."
"Not at my school," said Austin.
"Come, Bevans, don't be hard," said Mr. Johns. "You were young once, I suppose, even though you are a schoolmaster. I think George here showed a certain romantic spirit very commendable in a young man in breaking into your school, and, after all, you know, you can't object to my granddaughter receiving letters from any one, if I say it's all right."
"I can and do," replied Austin.
Mr. Johns turned to George. "You send your letters to me, George," he said, soothingly, "and I'll see that Elise gets them."
George was so astonished at this treatment that he decided to take Mr. Johns completely into his confidence. "Oh, sir," he cried, "don't you see how it is? Don't you see that this man is in love with Elise himself?"
"I am not in love with Elise," answered Austin, quickly, and as he heard his own assertion ring out so clear and positive for the first time it occurred to him that the statement was not, strictly speaking, true.
Johns wheeled upon Austin, as if he had expected to catch him with a sonnet on his eyelash, but seeing nothing evidential, he turned back to George and asked, "Whatcher mean?"
"He's always having interviews with her, and letters, and he's jealous of me. Can't you see that? But," said the exasperated George, "I don't suppose any one cares much how he feels, if it weren't that I'm afraid that she's getting fond of him."
This time the assertion roused some confirmatory memories in Mr. Johns. He recalled Elise's chill, trembling fingers, her eyes, her voice. He wheeled again on Austin, and this time met a glance too blank and steady to be normal. "Ha!" he said, and in the silence that followed this momentous monosyllable the loud, insistent tones of the supper march reached their ears. Johns got hastily to his feet.
"Good Lord!" he said. "There's supper. What will Mrs. Rolles say?"
"Mrs. who?" exclaimed Austin.
"Lady I'm taking to supper. Hope you'll stay, Bevans."
It seemed to Austin a proof of the finest delicacy of feeling on his part that after the events of the evening he did not want to see Susie, who, he knew, must be there if her mother was. He could not, he said to himself, speak to Susie without betraying the strength of his love for her, and this would be an unnecessary insult to the poor little princess. He preferred to deny himself one of the supreme pleasures of his life and go away without seeing the object of his unique affection.
"No, thank you," he said. "I must be going. I'll just wait here until they get into the dining-room." Already the sound of voices could be heard on the stairs.
Left alone, he sank into a chair and lit a cigarette. He felt profoundly distressed by what had happened. It was a dreadful thing that he should have to be the cause of unhappiness to one of the children committed to his charge—he, who ought to be willing to lay down his life to save theirs. An idea came to him. It was possible, it was even likely, that the little princess had exaggerated her emotions; the first grown man she met might drive her schoolmaster out of her head; but if she were right, if this really were her great passion, could he give his life to anything better than trying to make her happy? Susie didn't care for him, might never, perhaps, care, though he hadn't been able to face the truth before. Wasn't it his duty to make the sacrifice?
The stern daughter of the voice of God seemed to speak with a clear but not wholly disagreeable accent.
He thought Elise might slip back for an instant, just to say good night to him, but, though he waited a long time, she did not come, and so he finally went away.
In the mean time Mr. Johns hurried up-stairs to find Mrs. Rolles, the oldest and most important lady there, sitting entirely alone on a slender gilt chair in the midst of the ball-room. It would not be true to say that Mr. Johns feared Mrs. Rolles, for he didn't, but he treated her almost as an equal.
"Nearly late—nearly late," he said, cheerily, hurrying across the empty room.
"You are late, Mr. Johns," said Mrs. Rolles, rising and taking his arm, "but I dare say you have some excellent reason for a rudeness which is doubtless only apparent."
"Well, I have," he said, stumping hastily down the stairs with her. "I've been having an interview with Elise's schoolmaster—devil of a lot of fuss about the education of the young—more trouble than it's worth, I often think. What use is education to 'em, anyhow?—girls especially."
Mrs. Rolles stopped short. "Don't tell me," she said, "that Austin Bevans is here in this house? Oh, I hope not!"
"No—was—gone," said Mr. Johns. "Why do you care?"
"Because he's given me a great deal of trouble by being in love with my Susie."
"Oh-ho!" said Mr. Johns. "So it's her, is it?"
Mrs. Rolles did not trouble to correct his grammar. "Yes, he's been hanging about for a good many years, but lately I haven't let him see her, and you know, Mr. Johns, young people forget each other beautifully if you don't allow them to meet—particularly if they are meeting some one else. Young Bevans came to see me the other day, and I got the clearest impression that he's sentimentally interested in one of his pupils. If I can keep Susie out of his way for a little longer, I believe I shall get rid of him entirely."
Mr. Johns gave a grunt, an entirely new kind of grunt—it was long and cooing, like the note of an organ.
"Interested in one of his pupils, you say?"
"Yes; he came to see me the other day—you know I can't help liking him, Mr. Johns, though I won't let Susie like him."
"How do you stop it?"
"Oh, there are ways, if you know how—with girls, at least. He came to see me the other day and talked all the time about one of his pupils who wants to go to college, and I could see he was emotionally interested. Besides, he did not even ask to see Susie. It's the parting of the ways, if I manage it right."
Mr. Johns's business success had been due not only to his grunt and shout, but also to his power of acting instantly. And he saw now that he must act.
"Now you make a great mistake," he said, "about that young man. He's one of the coming men of America. He's not going to stick at school-teaching—not much. Too valuable. Why, I'd give him a salary of twenty thousand a year to start to manage any of our Western branches. He has sense, creative genius, puts anything over. Now I'll tell you a secret. I'm making him an offer to-morrow—dare say he won't take it—but I'm making it, after consultation with my directors, of course, to go to St. Louis and organize all our branches. He'll go far. Of course if you don't like him that's one thing, but don't make any mistake about his financial future. Genius. I don't see it often. When I do I snap it up—snap it up."
Mrs. Rolles began to look thoughtful.
"Mr. Johns," she said, "you would not like him to marry Elise."
"Elise?" said Johns. "Why, a man like Bevans wouldn't look at an immature little creature like my Elise. He's looking for some one who can help him in his career—not financially, you know, but a grande dame—some one who'd do him credit and help him along."
It might have been noticed by an acute observer—only none were there—that for the rest of the supper both Mr. Johns and Mrs. Rolles showed a tendency to sink into deep thought. Once she interrupted a sentence of his about the champagne to ask, "Are you sure Mr. Bevans has gone?"
"Oh yes, yes! Doesn't care for this sort of thing—not a frivolous-minded young feller," answered Mr. Johns, and went back to considering how he would put that proposition to the directors; not that he anticipated any difficulty with them. He never had any trouble with his directors—if he did, he changed them.
Austin did not go back to the shelter of the white cottage on leaving Mr. Johns. On the contrary, he turned south and, having eventually let himself in to his old rooms with his latch-key, was presently sitting on the edge of David's bed. It was only twelve o'clock, but David had gone to bed early, and had at once sunk into that deep first sleep from which every one is so reluctant to be roused. His first words were, "Well, well, what did I tell you?" which meant, though he never confessed it, that the dream of his life was that Austin would call on his legal knowledge to extricate him from the results of some hideous imprudence. Then, waking up and looking very wise, he said:
"Ah, Austin! How's the school?"
"All right," answered Austin. He had a frequent impulse to confide in his friend on account of his sound, sincere affection—an impulse always checked by David's unimaginative mental processes.
"Any of the little darlings in love with you yet?"
David supposed Austin was changing the subject when, instead of answering this question, he asked one of his own:
"How are you and Susie getting on?"
Rare indeed is the nature that does not become a little more intense when its own affairs come under discussion. David sat up, his rumpled hair mitigating that "aristocratic sort of ugliness" which Mrs. Rolles admired.
"Austin," he said, solemnly, "if it weren't that I know she's crazy about you, I'd really think I had a chance."
"Don't be an ass, Dave. No woman has ever been crazy about me—really."
David began a list of those who to his mind had betrayed an undying devotion, not one of whom would Austin admit as genuine. So that, at last, a little irritated by such skepticism, David said:
"Well, you don't expect a nice girl to come and tell you that she's dying for you, do you?"
"And why not?" exclaimed Austin, with feeling. "My Lord! David, I hate that sort of narrowness. If a girl feels a thing, is there any reason why she shouldn't tell it, just as much as a man?"
"Simply they don't—not the nice ones," said David, speaking as an observer, a lawyer, and a man of the world.
"The nice ones!" cried Austin. "You seem to think it isn't nice to be human; and, anyhow, who made you the arbiter of women's conduct?"
This was one of those absolutely impersonal discussions that seemed to rouse the most personal animosities. David's proposition was that Austin might allow women to fool him as much as he liked, but that he, David, knew that women of true deep feeling would die simply rather than express it. Austin, on the other hand, was of the opinion that this iron self-control and maiden-modesty bunk was a good deal exaggerated, and if a girl didn't show the slightest feeling it was probably because she didn't have any.
They parted shortly before dawn on very bad terms, but made up over a late breakfast—that is to say, they each decided to pretend that nothing had gone wrong between them, and after a little while were surprised to find that, as a matter of fact, nothing had.
Austin spent the whole spring holiday—four days—with David. They neither of them saw Susie; Austin because, as he explained, he knew it would be no use to try; David because, as long as his friend couldn't, he thought it more honorable not to try. But they enjoyed themselves very much. One night at the theater Austin saw Elise in a box with the Boyds. George was leaning over her shoulder, but as soon as she saw Austin she moved her place so that no one could speak to her but Sally. Austin enjoyed the performance much more after this shift had been made. David, following his eyes, asked who they were, and Austin answered that the fat girl was one of his pupils.
"If that large-eyed beauty were a pupil I might apply for a job," said David, but received no answer.
The last day of the holiday, about six, Mr. Johns suddenly presented himself in the little flat.
"Want to talk to you," he said, nodding at Austin and sniffing and grunting. "All right before this gentleman?"
David's gesture seemed to imply that bank presidents often came miles for the privilege of discussing their private affairs in his presence. Austin merely nodded. The fact that his conscience was no longer absolutely clear was shown by the fact that the grunts did not now leave him particularly calm. He wondered rather anxiously what it was that Mr. Johns could have to say.
Too impatient and too easily bored himself to take much time developing his ideas, Mr. Johns flung them out at once—Western banks—chain—affiliations—need of a live young feller—snap—Austin had it—good salary—$15,000—better than teaching school—leave that to Miss Hayes—she'd run it—man's job.
Austin rose, astonished not so much by the magnificent offer that was being made to him as by his own extreme repugnance to it.
"I don't want Miss Hayes to run my school," he said.
David, who saw instantly that all obstacles were now destroyed between the beloved Susie and his best friend, felt it his duty to say:
"My dear fellow, your future is assured."
"I know nothing whatsoever about banking," said Austin, as if this ignorance would certainly save him.
"Don't have to," answered Mr. Johns. "I'll furnish you with all the technical men you need. What I want of you is vision, snap, understanding of personalities, executive ability."
Austin was silent. He knew it was not an offer that any sane man could refuse, and then a thought came to him, apparently irrelevant, namely, that Elise would graduate from the school in a few weeks, anyhow.
He said that he felt most grateful and flattered, that he must take time to look about and find a successor at the school who would carry out his ideas, but that he believed he could say that by June—
Mr. Johns began shaking his head and grunting. "Twenty-four hours is all I can give yer," he shouted. "My directors are a hasty, pig-headed bunch. They won't wait while you shilly-shally—want you to be in St. Louis within a month. Yes or no. Can't you say yes or no now?"
Before Mr. Johns left the room Austin had of course consented.
"And now," said David, as the door closed behind Mr. Johns, "I suppose you are going straight to Susie."
His friend frowned. "You seem to think I'm a pretty reckless fool, David," he said, "to rush off and try to get married on the mere vague promise of a salary. Do you realize that nothing has been put in writing yet? A nice position I should be in with Mrs. Rolles."
"It's as good as in writing."
"As good as in writing!" exclaimed Austin. "Well, really, my dear man, I hope you will be more careful of your clients' interests than of your friends'. I shall not regard this as settled until I have a letter from the directors."
David stared at him in surprise. He was not accustomed to having Austin preach caution to him.
"May I tell Susie about it?" he asked.
"Certainly not," said his friend.
Austin motored back that evening after dinner. The school opened the next morning, but the girls had been back twenty-four hours before he saw Elise—in other words, the machinery he had arranged to keep himself isolated was working admirably. Of course the whole school knew the story of George's romantic conduct, and Elise and even Sally were heroines as a result. The older man who had replaced George was not looked upon with favor.
Austin was not in any hurry to make his report to Miss Curtis and Miss Hayes as to what had happened in his interview with Mr. Johns. At the same time he wanted to know how Elise was doing, and so the second evening, after the opening of school, he came over to Miss Curtis's office, just before supper-time, to tell her and Miss Hayes as much as he wanted them to know.
Miss Curtis was in a flutter of happiness. "Isn't it wonderful how our confidence was justified?" she said. "I knew there could be no harm in it—no real harm—just a prank—dear Sally's brother."
"He's a very inferior young man, whoever his sister is," answered Miss Hayes.
"Exactly," Austin agreed, cordially.
"I suppose," said Miss Curtis, timidly, "that Mr. Johns was—was rather terrible?"
"Mr. Johns," said Austin, "was willing that the correspondence should continue, only, of course, I absolutely forbade that."
"I was sure dear Elise was not to blame, murmured Miss Curtis.
Austin cleared his throat. "How does Elise seem?" he inquired.
"Oh, the way girls do after they've been home for holidays," answered Miss Hayes, crossly. "If I had my way, children should never be allowed to go back to the parents. She looks pale and listless. All these parties and theaters—so silly."
Austin was silent; human beings were pitiful creatures, he thought. Miss Curtis protested. "You ought not to talk that way about parents, Eleanor," she said. "It would ruin the school if any of them heard you. But I must confess, Elise does seem to be in a curious state of mind. I said to her yesterday that she ought to take more interest in her work—set an example—she, who had everything in the world she could ask for, and she burst into tears. I had not meant to be harsh."
Miss Hayes fixed her eyes on Austin contemplatively. "Perhaps she hasn't got everything she wants," she said. "So few of us have."
"What?" cried Miss Curtis, "young, pretty, rich, charming— Don't you think she's charming, Mr. Bevans?"
"She seems a very sweet child," Austin began, rather wildly, when a servant came in to say that two ladies were in the reception-room, asking to see him. They had not given their names.
"Parents," said Miss Curtis, looking alarmed.
"New applicants," said Miss Hayes, hopefully.
"Come with me while I talk to them," said Austin. Surrounded as it were by his staff, he entered the reception-room to find Mrs. Rolles and Susie.
"Will you take pity on us, dear Mr. Bevans?" said Mrs. Rolles, all graciousness. "The motor broke down not a mile away, and we thought of you at once. What a charming view you have here," she added to Miss Curtis, "and such attractive buildings," she threw out to Miss Hayes. "Will you give us some dinner, Mr. Bevans, or is that too much to ask?"
"Of course, delighted." He turned to Miss Curtis. "We'll all three dine in the school, if you'll tell them to put places." Emotions crowded upon him. He had always complained of a peculiarly limp handshake which was characteristic of Susie. Now, as he shook hands with her, he felt a distinct pressure. Then he saw that she was looking extraordinarily pretty in her slim, remote way. Then he realized that the dream of these last months—the dream of having Susie in the white cottage—might perfectly have come true, and that he had deliberately chosen to bring her to dine in the comparative publicity of the school instead. He was surprised at himself. He thought that in a few minutes he would see Elise, and that she would see Susie, and would probably guess the whole thing, and that anything might happen. And all the time Mrs. Rolles was being gracious and Susie beautiful—her face relaxing into one of her faint smiles each time she met his eye.
In the mean time Miss Curtis was saying to herself: "Oh yes, this is the happy, lovely being whose picture stands on his desk. I see it all now. Oh, I do hope she is worthy of him."
And Miss Hayes was thinking: "Yes, I remember this old person. She brought the girl here once to enter her, and did not want her to study algebra for fear of destroying the perfect irrationality of her mental processes. Stupid people."
A loud sudden gong sounded. Dinner was ready.
The whole school was seated when Austin with his visitors entered and made his way toward the senior table. Mrs. Rolles at once picked out Elise.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "isn't that Mr, Johns's little granddaughter? Do let her sit next to me."
Nothing was easier. Austin sat down with Mrs. Rolles on his right and Elise next to her, Susie on his left, and Miss Hayes beyond.
"How have you been, Austin?" said Susie, softly.
Now it is well, though perhaps subconsciously, known that between lovers this question really means: How have you borne up under the intolerable agony of our separation? And so it was a surprise to Susie when Austin, who seemed more ready to turn his head to the right than to the left, answered:
"I've been very busy."
She knew what this meant—that his mind had been occupied with things other than herself. The only hope was that he said it with the deliberate intention of annoying herself; if that were so, he would not want to talk about the things that had been occupying him—he would want to talk about her.
"Tell me what you've been doing," she said, and saw, with a sinking heart, that he was going to obey her.
She leaned her elbows on the table—a thing the girls of the Bevans school were never allowed to do—and inclined her ear to his recital. While she was saying aloud, "Really, I had no idea of it," or, "Oh, do tell me more about it," she was thinking in her heart, "The fickle, blind creature, he doesn't care anything about me at all."
Suddenly she interrupted him. "And haven't you thought about your friends a bit, Austin?"
He looked surprised at this change of idea, when he had supposed her to be so much interested, but answered, "Thinking is all some of my friends allow me to do about them."
This sounded more promising. She lowered her voice. "I was going to tell you, Austin. Mamma sees that forbidding you the house doesn't work—has just the opposite effect to what she meant. One doesn't forget the people one is forbidden to think of. You are to be allowed to come as often as you like."
"Susie!" he cried, throwing a great deal of pleasure into his voice, and then, to his utter astonishment, he discovered that he was not nearly so glad as he had been about to declare himself. What could be the reason? He ran hastily over the possibilities and found one that would do very well. "Ah," he said, "it's almost too late, now."
"Too late?" said Susie, sharply.
"I'm not going to be in this part of the world very much longer, I'm afraid." That very morning the formal offer in writing from the directors had been accepted.
"You don't mean," said Susie, "that you are going to abandon your school?"
For the first time in his life he felt a quick, an almost domestic irritation against the ideal creature at his side.
"Well, you needn't shout about it," he said. "I have not mentioned it to any one here yet." And he turned quickly to see if Susie's words could have reached to the farther side of Mrs. Rolles.
"I didn't shout," answered Susie, crossly. "Really, Austin, I don't think running a girls' school has improved your manners."
Austin smiled. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was thinking you were one of my pupils, and we are very particular about voices—"
He felt he must hear what was going on to his right. Not a word reached him but something tense and tragic in the tone of the little princess's voice carried him back to the interview at Mr. Johns's party. What could Mrs. Rolles be telling her? Hardly that he and Susie were engaged, for they weren't. He leaned forward and caught Miss Hayes's eye.
"I was just thinking Miss Rolles ought to hear our course on voice-placing," he said.
"Oh, do tell me about it," said Susie, with rage in her heart, for she saw perfectly she was being side-tracked. As soon as Miss Hayes began to answer, Austin's head turned to the right, and Mrs. Rolles began at once:
"Elise and I were having such an interesting talk about the relative advantages of a head-master and head-mistress, and we have decided"—she nodded gaily at Elise—"haven't we, my dear, that both can be combined if you will only marry wisely, Mr. Bevans."
His heart stood still; what implications might not have been made in the course of that discussion? He tried to see her face, but she kept dodging behind Mrs. Rolles, and then suddenly, just as he had thought up a question which would oblige her to look at him (it was going to be nothing more original than "How are you, Elise?") she rose unsteadily, murmured something in the direction of Miss Hayes, who was supposed to be the head of the table, and left the room.
"She looks very fragile," said Mrs. Rolles. "I should be worried about her if I were Mr. Johns."
"She hasn't seemed a bit vigorous since the holidays," said Miss Hayes, rising to follow her.
"She's a pathetic little creature," said Susie to Austin, and added, in a lower voice, "and so ridiculously in love with that fat Boyd boy."
"Is she?" said Austin.
"Engaged, I believe," answered Susie. "It's strange, but I never could take the least interest in a man unless he were thin," and she allowed her eyes to rest flatteringly on Austin's leanness.
"Your treatment soon reduces the weight," Austin answered, wondering if Miss Hayes would ever come back. "David tells me he's lost ten pounds."
"David!" exclaimed Susie, as if it were an impertinence for David to have lost an ounce on her account. Then she added, with a smile, "Have you been losing weight, Austin?"
"My weight never varies very much," he answered, and cut the meal short by rising to his feet.
He admitted to himself one disadvantage of being the masculine head of a feminine institution—a head-mistress would have gone straight to the bedside of a sick pupil, whereas he, the only person who really understood her, was obliged to content himself with sending Miss Curtis, running up-stairs like a rabbit, to bring him word.
"You must take us over and show us your dear little cottage," said Mrs. Rolles.
"Just as soon as Miss Curtis comes back with news of Elise," he answered.
"One trouble with her is she doesn't eat anything," said Mrs. Rolles. "Girls go through an age, you know, when they think it's romantic to starve themselves."
"Didn't she eat anything at all?" asked Austin, seriously.
Mrs. Rolles laughed. "Why, you are conscientious about your pupils," she said. The words stabbed him like a knife.
Miss Curtis's report was vague—Elise was overtired and had gone to bed. Miss Hayes had moved her into the infirmary so that she should not be disturbed by Sally.
He took his guests to the cottage then, and Susie sat down at once in the great blue arm-chair, where he always pictured her sitting. He looked at her pale hair against the dark velvet, but the actuality did not give him the pleasure which the dream had never failed to bring.