The Bishop noted his hesitation, shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and whispered something to his neighbour. The words were inaudible, but the Chairman guessed their purport and his hesitation vanished.

“The question before us,” he said, “being whether or no the Council will take cognisance of the appeal of the Rev. Henry Chowdler, and the ayes and noes being equally divided, I cast my vote in favour of the noes. As we have no further business to transact, the Council is adjourned to the 21st of June next, when I hope that the plans and estimates for the new sheds and pig-stye, to be erected on the boundary field, will be ready for approval.”

CHAPTER XV
AFTERMATH

Mr. Chowdler took the blow standing. “What else could you expect,” he said contemptuously, “from such a Council! Like master, like man!” He did not even break down when his house gave him an ovation at prayers, such as might have greeted a conqueror. It was not so much a demonstration against the headmaster as a display of tribal loyalty to a fallen chief; and it had its touch of chivalry.

Mrs. Chowdler was completely bewildered. She could not understand how anybody, having to choose between Harry and that dreadful Mr. Flaggon, could fail to choose Harry. But she played up to her husband nobly. “Of course,” she said, “we never expected anything else; but Harry felt that it was his duty to give the Council a last chance of saving the school. They have rejected it, and that is the end of Chiltern.” Needless to say, nobody contradicted her, and she was the object of much silent sympathy.

Some people supposed, and many hoped, that, when the verdict was given against him, Mr. Chowdler would leave at once or at least withdraw from active life; and the headmaster allowed it to be known in the Chowdler circle, through Mr. Chase, that if such a step were contemplated everything would be done to make it easy. But Mr. Chowdler preferred to die fighting. In deference to the entreaties of his friends, he did indeed absent himself from masters’ meetings; but, otherwise, his presence was as much felt, his voice as often heard, as ever. No martyr has ever stood at the stake with a prouder or more defiant mien.

Now a martyrdom is always an unpleasant business for others than the victim; and one of the spectators who felt the unpleasantness most acutely was Mr. Bent. Mr. Bent repudiated the title of sportsman, but he had scruples and susceptibilities of his own. As unacknowledged heir to Mr. Chowdler’s house he found his position a delicate one, and he hesitated to proclaim his right to the succession while Mr. Chowdler was so very much alive. It would have been comparatively easy to speak the word while the battle was still raging and the issue in doubt; but he had missed the psychological moment, and to speak it now, smacked too much of a mean triumph over a fallen foe. Therefore, when people wondered in his presence who would succeed to the house, he held his peace and felt a little like a boy who had committed an offence and fears to own up to it. The situation was particularly awkward, because it was high time that he should be making arrangements for moving in; and the holidays were short.

His friend Plummer put a finger, inadvertently, one afternoon on the raw place and received a disagreeable shock.

“I wonder,” he said, “who will get Chowdler’s house. It’s very tactful of Flaggon to keep it in abeyance; but he’ll have to make the appointment soon—certainly before the end of Term.”

“Perhaps it’ll be me,” said Mr. Bent, colouring slightly.