“Then I will do my best,” said Mr. Bent, “and trust that my better nature will pull me through.”
There was a pause before Mr. Flaggon began again, somewhat hesitatingly:
“I think, perhaps, that it would be better if this matter were kept private between us two—for the present at all events. I am thinking chiefly of your own position.”
“You mean,” said Mr. Bent, “that, if certain things happen, I shall cut a better figure if I am found seated on the top of the fence than if I have come down definitely on the wrong side.”
Mr. Flaggon smiled. “I suppose I meant something of the kind,” he said, “though I didn’t put it to myself quite in that way. The truth is that I am not at all sure about the future. I have every right to assume that the Council will support me against Chowdler; but, strictly between ourselves, they seem to be hesitating, and I have been approached lately with suggestions of a compromise. I can accept no compromise. Its not a question of my own dignity—though a public man has to consider that too: but, if I am not to be headmaster de facto as well as de jure, I can serve no useful purpose by remaining here; and I shall go.”
“In that case,” said Mr. Bent, “there is no need for secrecy; for, if you go, I shall go too.”
The headmaster coloured slightly. Ever since he had been at Chiltern, and especially in the last few weeks, he had felt his isolation and aloofness as no inconsiderable part of the burden. The sudden sense of fellowship sent a warm glow through his veins; but he repressed his emotion and replied gravely:
“I hope you won’t do that; you mustn’t do that. It is quite unnecessary, and it would damage the school.”
Mr. Bent got up from his chair, and, all unconsciously, began to pace about the room. His feelings were such that he could not express them adequately in a sitting posture.
“I’m not speaking on the spur of the moment,” he began. “My mind was made up long before I came into this study and received your offer. For fifteen years I’ve lived in an atmosphere of bunkum and make-believe that have no relation to facts. That kind of thing is bound to make a man either a humbug or a cynic. It has very nearly made me a cynic; and, though it’s very amusing to be a cynic, it isn’t good for one’s immortal soul. If one’s to be a live man, one must have something definite to do—something that one can believe in and work for. I can appreciate and work for your ideals—decency, order, and an education that—that is educational. I know that I shan’t approve of all your methods—I’m Oxford, and much too critical for that—and you won’t expect it of me. But I cannot endure to sink back again into unreality. I have enough to live on; not much but enough; and I can always get work—tutoring or anything. But I will not face another fifteen years of the off-theory and Chowdler’s version of the Lanchester tradition. I say,” he added suddenly, “I must apologise. In my excitement I’ve been forgetting my manners.”