De Gussibus non disputandum.
A remnant of sanity kept the headmaster from appearing in person, but his wife and the youngest Miss Gussy, who were not insensible to such attentions, showed themselves at the open windows of the drawing-room and were acclaimed uproariously—especially the youngest Miss Gussy.
It was felt, however, amongst the staff, that things were going a little farther than was wise. Loyalty is all very well, but loyalty should be tempered by discretion; and the housemasters came in for some criticism on account of their supposed connivance. Even Mr. Plummer, the most confirmed of optimists, had misgivings, and observed next day in Common Room:
“It really does look as if some of the housemasters had been a little slack; unless, of course, the whole thing has been very much exaggerated.”
“It has, as you say,” replied Mr. Bent, “been very much exaggerated. There were, in reality, no boys, no music, no song, no Miss Gussy. The whole thing was a phantasm of the living, an allegory, an unsubstantial pageant that fades and leaves not a wrack behind. I know it for a fact.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Plummer.
“I have questioned each of the housemasters separately,” replied Mr. Bent, “and each has assured me, in tones of the deepest conviction, that his own Prefects can be trusted absolutely, and that it is, moreover, physically and structurally impossible for any boy to leave that particular house after dark without the knowledge of his housemaster. Each has further informed me that, if only the other housemasters would take the same simple and common-sense precautions, such scenes as the one we are deploring to-day would be impossible. Now, what do you say to that, Plummer? You are surely not such a cynic as to doubt the word of a housemaster?”
Mr. Chowdler treated the matter in a more serious spirit. He had watched the unexpected apotheosis of Dr. Gussy without enthusiasm—“sentiment run mad” he called it—and the official countenance given to the serenade by Mrs. and Miss Gussy filled him with indignation. He felt that it was high time for somebody to speak to the “silly old man.” When duty called, Mr. Chowdler was not the man to shirk an unpleasant task, and his sense of duty was sharpened by a strong personal dislike of Mrs. and the youngest Miss Gussy. He therefore appeared in the headmaster’s study after lunch, wearing the particular expression which Dr. Gussy had learned to associate with some of the unpleasanter moments of his own life.
Now, Dr. Gussy had been as much surprised as anybody at the sudden blaze of popularity of which he had been the centre; but, being naïve and not addicted to self-analysis, he had thoroughly enjoyed it. Moreover, the days of his bondage were almost accomplished, and he no longer felt afraid of any man. So he did what he had not done for many a long day, namely, snapped his fingers in Mr. Chowdler’s face, and even told him not to be an old woman—at least, so Mrs. Gussy told her friends, and a Dean’s wife must be supposed to speak the truth.
Mr. Chowdler gave a somewhat different version of the encounter, in which the honours were made to rest with himself rather than with his chief. But even he could not conceal the fact that he had received a diplomatic rebuff. He relieved his feelings by calling together his house Prefects and giving them one of his straight manly talks. “Things,” he said, “are shaky—you would probably call them ‘dicky’; but I shall call them shaky—and with anxious times ahead of us next Term, we can’t afford to be playing ducks and drakes with our best traditions; and, what with weakness at the top and giddy heads at the bottom, that’s just what some folks are beginning to do. You know what I am referring to—that ridiculous scene last night. I know what you think about it. You and I understand each other, and we know where the blame lies. We needn’t dot the i’s, but there are certain houses, not a hundred miles from here, which would be better for a taste of our friend Archie’s strong arm.” Here “our friend Archie,” who was head of the eleven, fidgeted uncomfortably. “Now, I want you to remember,” continued Mr. Chowdler impressively, “that your influence ought not to end with the house. I want you to talk sense to giddy heads and to strengthen feeble knees. I want you to set your candles on a hill where the whole school can see them. I want you, when everybody else is failing, to be the pillars and the props of our grand old Lanchester tradition.”