As Dunn looked into her honest, kindly eyes he hesitated. Should he tell her? He was in sore need of counsel, and besides he was at the limit of his self-control. “I say,” he said, staring at her, while his lips quivered, “I'd like awfully to tell you, but I know if I ever begin I shall just burst into tears before this gaping crowd.”
“Tears!” exclaimed Miss Bessie. “Not you! And if you did it wouldn't hurt either them or you. An International captain possesses this advantage over other mortals: that he may burst into tears or anything else without losing caste, whereas if I should do any such thing—But come, let's get somewhere and talk it over. Now, then,” said Miss Brodie as they found a quiet corner, “first of all, ought I to know?”
“You'll know, all Edinburgh will know time day after to-morrow,” said Dunn.
“All right, then, it can't do any harm for me to know to-night. It possibly may do good.”
“It will do me good, anyway,” said Dunn, “for I have reached my limit.”
Then Dunn told her, and while she listened she grew grave and anxious. “But surely it can be arranged!” she exclaimed, after he had finished.
“No, Mr. Rae has tried everything. The Bank is bound to pursue it to the bitter end. It is apparently a part of its policy.”
“What Bank?”
“The Bank of Scotland.”
“Why, that's my uncle's Bank! I mean, he is the Chairman of the Board of Directors, and the Bank is the apple of his eye; or one of them, I mean—I'm the other.”
“Oh, both, I fancy,” said Dunn, rather pleased with his own courage.
“But come, this is serious,” said Miss Brodie. “The Bank, you know, or you don't know, is my uncle's weak spot.”
Mr. Rae's words flashed across Dunn's mind: “We ought to have found his weak spots.”
“He says,” continued Miss Brodie with a smile—“you know he's an old dear!—I divide his heart with the Bank, that I have the left lobe. Isn't that the bigger one? So the Bank and I are his weak spots; unless it is his Wiltshires—he is devoted to Wiltshires.”
“Wiltshires?”
“Pigs. There are times when I feel myself distinctly second to them. Are you sure my uncle knows all about Cameron?”
“Well, Mr. Rae and Captain Cameron—that's young Cameron's father—went out to his place—”
“Ah, that was a mistake,” said Miss Brodie. “He hates people following him to the country. Well, what happened?”
“Mr. Rae feels that it was rather a mistake that Captain Cameron went along.”
“Why so? He is his father, isn't he?”
“Yes, he is, though I'm bound to say he's rather queer for a father.” Whereupon Dunn gave her an account of his interview in Mr. Rae's office.
Miss Brodie was indignant. “What a shame! And what a fool! Why, he is ten times more fool than his son; for mark you, his son is undoubtedly a fool, and a selfish fool at that. I can't bear a young fool who sacrifices not simply his own life, but the interests of all who care for him, for some little pet selfishness of his own. But this father of his seems to be even worse than the son. Family name indeed! And I venture to say he expatiated upon the glory of his family name to my uncle. If there's one thing that my uncle goes quite mad about it is this affectation of superiority on the ground of the colour of a man's blood! No wonder he refused to withdraw the prosecution! What could Mr. Rae have been thinking about? What fools men are!”
“Quite true,” murmured Mr. Dunn.
“Some men, I mean,” cried Miss Brodie hastily. “I wish to heaven I had seen my uncle first!”
“I suppose it's too late now,” said Dunn, with a kind of gloomy wistfulness.
“Yes, I fear so,” said Miss Brodie. “You see when my uncle makes up his mind he appears to have some religious scruples against changing it.”
“It was a ghastly mistake,” said Dunn bitterly.
“Look here, Mr. Dunn,” said Miss Brodie, turning upon him suddenly, “I want your straight opinion. Do you think this young man guilty?”
They were both looking at Cameron, at that moment the centre of a group of open admirers, his boyish face all aglow with animation. For the time being it seemed as if he had forgotten the terrible catastrophe overhanging him.
“If I hadn't known Cameron for three years,” replied Dunn slowly, “I would say offhand that this thing would be impossible to him; but you see you never know what a man in drink will do. Cameron can carry a bottle of Scotch without a stagger, but of course it knocks his head all to pieces. I mean, he is quite incapable of anything like clear thought.”
“It is truly terrible,” said Miss Brodie. “I wish I had known yesterday, but those men have spoilt it all. But here's 'Lily' Laughton,” she continued hurriedly, “coming for his dance.” As she spoke a youth of willowy figure, languishing dark eyes and ladylike manner drew near.
“Well, here you are at last! What a hunt I have had! I am quite exhausted, I assure you,” cried the youth, fanning himself with his handkerchief. “And though you have quite forgotten it, this is our dance. What can you two have been talking about? But why ask? There is only one theme upon which you could become so terrifically serious.”
“And what is that, pray? Browning?” inquired Miss Brodie sweetly.
“Dear Miss Brodie, if you only would, but—ugh!—” here “Lily” shuddered, “I can in fancy picture the gory scene in which you have been revelling for the last hour!” And “Lily's” handsome face and languid, liquid eyes indicated his horror. It was “Lily's” constant declaration that he “positively loathed” football, although his persistent attendance at all the great matches rather belied this declaration. “It is the one thing in you, Miss Bessie, that I deplore, 'the fly in the pot—' no, 'the flaw—' ah, that's better—'the flaw in the matchless pearl.'”
“How sweet of you,” murmured Miss Brodie.
“Yes, indeed,” continued “Lily,” wreathing his tapering fingers, “it is your devotion to those so-called athletic games—games! ye gods!—the chief qualifications for excellence in which appear to be brute strength and a blood-thirsty disposition; as witness Dunn there. I was positively horrified last International. There he was, our own quiet, domestic, gentle Dunn, raging through that howling mob of savages like a bloody Bengal tiger.—Rather apt, that!—A truly awful and degrading exhibition!”
“Ah, perfectly lovely!” murmured Miss Brodie ecstatically. “I can see him yet.”
“Miss Brodie, how can you!” exclaimed “Lily,” casting up his eyes in horror towards heaven. “But it was ever thus! In ancient days upon the bloody sands of the arena, fair ladies were wont to gaze with unrelenting eyes and thumbs turned down—or up, was it—?”
“Excellent! But how clever of them to gaze with their thumbs in that way!”
“Please don't interrupt,” said “Lily” severely; “I have just 'struck my gait,' as that barbaric young Colonial, Martin, another of your bloody, brawny band, would say. And here you sit, unblushing, glorying in their disgusting deeds and making love open and unabashed to their captain!”
“Go away, 'Lily' or I'll hurt you,” cried Dunn, his face a brilliant crimson. “Come, get out!”
“But don't be uplifted,” continued “Lily,” ignoring him, “you are not the first. By no means! It is always the last International captain, and has been to my certain knowledge for the last ten years.”
“Ten